The Time of Growing (Not Abandoned-Under Editing)
by ElectricSheep78
Summary: Not all that grows is green and good. A shadow grows over Mirkwood, its darkness bleeding into the heart of the Elvenking while elsewhere an ancient power has awakened, a power who will bring a reckoning to all who walk upon Middle-earth, One who seeks to end the dominion of Man and begin a new era - a time of growing, a time of healing, a time for nature to take back what's hers.
1. Introduction

"Eru is bountiful," she said. "Now let your children beware! For there shall walk a power in the forests whose wrath they will arouse at their peril."

\- Yavanna Kementári,

From The Silmarillion, _Of_ _Aulë_ _and Yavanna_ , by JRR Tolkien

The age of man is done,  
The time of growing has come.  
Beware the forests and green places.  
Beware the walking trees with faces.  
Strength once lost has now been found  
By the roots within the ground.

Stones will break and roots will squeeze,  
Vines will grow and bend all knees;  
Mushrooms hunt and thorns yoke,  
Weeds strangle and flowers choke.  
The age of skin is done.  
The hour of bark has come.

 _*The second stanza of the poem was found online and I could not track down the original poster; I'm only borrowing it and take no credit for its creation. I did, however, create the first stanza to add to it._


	2. Prologue: Disaster at Gladden Fields

**Autumn, TA2  
near Gladden Fields**

Isildur surveyed the Dúnedain around him, watching them prepare for what was to come. Hardened faces set in grim determination, these men showed no fear. They knew well what to do and they would do it with deadly efficiency. Anger swelled within him - anger that his warriors must again do battle after surviving so much for so long, that his sons were again in danger, that his long-awaited reunion with his wife would be delayed. _Perhaps forever_. His grey eyes snapped back to the squire in front of him patiently awaiting his orders. Isildur had made his decision, a decision born of desperation in the face of insurmountable odds, and his squire would not like it. Ohtar had hardly left Isildur's side these last seven years; he would be loathe to do so now.

"Ohtar, the time has come. Take the shards of my father's sword and make for the High Pass. Go to Imladris. If things go ill, I want to know that Valandil will have what remains of my father's sword. I want you to tell..."

"No!" Ohtar interrupted, stepping forward and prodding Isildur's chest with a gloved finger. "No. Isildur, I will not abandon you. I have fought by your side through worse than this. Much worse! I will stay and fight. You cannot send me away!"

"I am not asking, Ohtar. As your King I command it!" Urgency forced the words from Isildur's mouth, louder and sharper than he intended and drawing a few curious glances from the Dúnedain around them. He closed his eyes briefly and drew a calming breath before continuing more gently. "Go, Ohtar, please. All will be well. This we must believe. After all these years of war, you already know the words to speak to my wife and son. Ride hard and do not look back."

The squire sighed in resignation. "Very well, _your majesty_. As your subject, I will do as you command but as your friend, I must tell you that I do not like it." Isildur's lips curved into a wry grin. He expected no less. Ohtar turned to ensure the shards of Narsil were secure within his saddlebags. "Your little son will have his grandsire's sword and your lady wife will have your words of love." He bowed formally and with a small, regretful smile swung himself up in the saddle. His chestnut gelding snorted and tossed its head in eagerness to be away. "I shall see you in Imladris. May the Valar protect you. May they protect you all."

"Safe travels, my friend. We will meet again." Isildur patted the horse's rump and backed away.

Ohtar nodded silently, his lips set in a firm line. He had no more words for his oldest friend; they had all been spoken many times over during the war. Spurring his mount, he rode swiftly away from the impending battle, away from his King who stood stoically with a hand raised in farewell. If Isildur had thought for a moment that his sons would agree, he would have ordered them away as well. Shaking his head and squaring his shoulders, he went to oversee the final preparations.

OoO

The sun sank low in the sky and the battle cries of the orcs rose, growing louder and louder until the wave of dark creatures broke against the armour-clad Men of the West. They swarmed like vermin and overran the Dúnedain, their sheer numbers overwhelming Isildur's men. Arrows were soon spent keeping the foul, black tide at bay, but it was only a matter of time before the inevitable end.

As the ground became littered with bodies, the remaining men rallied around their King and his heirs. Isildur watched in horror as his younger son collapsed to his knees with a thick black arrow protruding from his chest. _Aratan!_ His wide eyes looked to Isildur in shock as a slow trickle of blood ran from his mouth and the sword dropped from his limp fingers. With a mighty cry, Isildur charged forward only to be blocked by a jeering group of orcs. He watched helplessly as one of them cleaved its filthy, jagged blade into Aratan's neck, silencing his ever-smiling, always-laughing son forever. Isildur howled in rage and anguish. He was vaguely aware of strong hands gripping him and pulling him back, the hands slipping and trying to find purchase on his bloody armour, yet still relentlessly pulling. Cursing and yelling Isildur was dragged backwards away from the heat of battle and forcibly spun round to face his eldest son. Elendur gripped his father's face between his hands and spoke to him. Isildur could see his son's mouth moving but his fractured mind could not piece together the words coming from it. His throat felt raw, his eyes burned, and his heart felt like it had been torn apart.

"Father, you must flee! You must take the Ring away from here. It cannot fall into the hands of the enemy." Elendur's words finally reached his ears, but Isildur's conscience rebelled at the thought of abandoning his remaining son and the meagre remnants of the Dúnedain.

He shook his head and unwittingly echoed Ohtar's earlier sentiments. "I will not leave you here, Elendur, I cannot. I will not flee this battle!"

"You must! The Ring must be protected at all cost! We will buy you as much time as we can. Now go! Please!" And with that Elendur shoved his father away and ran with renewed vigour back into the fray.

Isildur watched him go, love and regret in equal measure tightening his chest, then he did as his son commanded - he ran. He ran until his breath burned in his lungs and his knees felt weak, pausing in his flight only long enough to pull the gloves from his hands and clumsily remove the armour from his body. He stumbled on towards the sound of rushing water, the shrieks and growls of his pursuers growing ever nearer. With a trembling hand, Isildur removed the mithril chain from his neck, hesitating only a moment before slipping the Ring onto his finger and hoping for salvation. The warm metal glinted dangerously in the moonlight and nestled possessively around his finger. All of his pain and anguish were instantly amplified and whispers of darkness deafened his ears.

He forced his legs to keep moving and waded into the river, its icy waters nearly stealing his breath. _Almost there._ Halfway across the river sharp, shooting pains in his shoulder and abdomen caused him to stumble. One hand flew to his midriff, feeling the sharp tip of an arrow protruding from his skin. Another searing pain in his chest knocked him off his feet and he slipped under the swift water. _No_. _Not like this._ Kicking weakly he fought to keep his head above the water as he was swept downstream, the protruding shafts of the arrows catching and breaking on rocks and logs in the river. Numb fingers finally managed to grab onto a fallen limb and drag his weary body from the river. Clutching onto roots and vines, Isildur clawed his way to safety. His dimming vision picked out a safe haven in the growing darkness - a tall, bent tree on the river's edge, its moss and branches hanging low to the ground, almost completely shielding a small hollow where he could hide.

With great difficulty he made his way to the tree and crawled into the hollow, curling up inside and breathing heavily. His hand, pale and aching from the Anduin's frigid waters, held tightly to a thick wooden vine as the agony coursed through him and his life's blood seeped into the ground around gnarled roots. Leaning his head back to rest against the tree, he glanced at the hand gripping the vine, his eyes lingering on the Ring as it glimmered in the darkness. _Such a precious little thing._ Isildur was tired, so tired. He could feel his body weakening, his breaths slowing. Perhaps he could rest here just for a while and move on after the orcs had passed. His gaze fixed on the golden band, Isildur murmured a prayer to the Valar seeking protection for himself, his son, his wife...his Ring. He finally gave in to his exhaustion, lured by the promise of rest. Blanketed in warmth and soothed by gentle whispers, Isildur closed his eyes to sleep, never to open them again.

OoO

The orcs did pass, but Isildur never awoke. For years his body lay in the hollow of the tree undiscovered and undisturbed, his flesh feeding the roots. The skeletal hand still clutched the vine, the Ring still sat on its thin, white finger as the tree absorbed Isildur's remains completely. Vines grew, moss spread, and over the years the tree's trunk grew around the alabaster bones until nothing remained to mark his final resting place. Nothing.


	3. Connections

_"Now let your children beware! For there shall walk a power in the forests whose wrath they will arouse at their peril."_ \- Yavanna Kementári, in The Silmarillion, Chap 2 Of Aulë and Yavanna

 **Eryn Galen, The Great Greenwood  
Spring TA 1  
(One year prior to the Disaster at Gladden Fields)**

 ****  
The Elvenking Thranduil Oropherion sat draped elegantly on his father's throne, wearing his father's crown, listening to his father's counsellors, but the disdain on his face was his alone. They wanted him to take a wife. They wanted an heir to the throne. They wanted him to choose an eligible _elleth_ from their pre-approved list of Sindarin nobility. They dared to stand before him and lecture him like a child when there were more important matters to attend to. His icy blue gaze unflinchingly pierced the counsellor currently droning on about Thranduil's responsibility to sire an heir and secure the throne.

"...and it is your duty, _aran nin_ , to provide stability and security to your people, to show them that the line of Oropher will endure. They need to see that there will always be an heir. The people were fearful when both you and your father rode to war..."

"I am well aware of my duties, Lord Tarphen," Thranduil interrupted, hand raised slightly and eyes narrowed with impatience. "We are at the dawn of a hard-won peace, a peace paid for with the blood of our people. There is no hurry to produce heirs as neither the crown nor our realm are currently under threat. I will choose a wife when I am ready and not at the behest of my esteemed counsel." Thranduil stood and began his graceful descent of the stairs leading down from his throne. The counsellors bowed as the Elvenking approached, his silver robe trailing behind and his golden hair catching the rays of sunlight filtering through the skylights. "Your concern for the wellbeing of the kingdom is most appreciated, and I will take your suggestions into consideration. You may leave your...list...," Thranduil enunciated the word with distaste, "on my desk. That will be all for now." The counsellors bowed again and began to withdraw. The stiff backed Lord Tarphen looked as if he wanted to object but one of his more sensible counterparts placed a firm hand on his arm and guided him out.

Thranduil sighed in relief once they departed, alone except for the Royal Guards standing sentinel nearby. He paced over to a delicately carved side table and poured himself a well deserved glass of strong red wine. Feeling the pressure to maintain his regal demeanor in the presence of the guards, he sipped slowly instead of knocking back the drink in one long gulp as he secretly desired. He stared into his glass, seeing his face reflected in its deep crimson contents, his reflection tinted as if he was bathed in blood. Dark brows drew together in a frown as his mind wandered the paths of memory back to the Dagorlad, back to his father's demise, back to the faces of his dead friends. Thranduil swallowed a lump in his throat and took a deep breath. "Too much," he thought to himself. "The price was too high."

He gave himself a mental shake to regain his composure. There was still much to do despite the fact that his father's Steward Astorion and the rest of the counsel had efficiently guided the kingdom in the nearly decade long absence of Oropher and Thranduil. He considered his tasks as he drank his wine. Changes needed to be made to the border guards, patrol routes, and provisions. There was also an over-abundance of paperwork waiting for him in his study and now that ridiculous list was most likely sitting right on top. Thranduil sighed and returned his empty glass to the table. He clasped his hands behind his back and strode quickly out of the throne room and toward his chambers, politely nodding greetings to those he passed, but largely lost in thought. Most of the population of the Woodland Realm had been decimated in the War of the Last Alliance and the halls were noticeably less busy. Upon his return, his first act as king had been to make sure the widows and families of his fallen warriors would be taken care of in the future. The warriors had given their lives under his command; their loved ones left behind were Thranduil's responsibility now, no matter what the counsel said. It was the least he could do. He would also make a tour of the kingdom soon and visit the outlying settlements. He wanted to see the repercussions of his decisions first-hand.

As he reached the intricately engraved oaken door to his chambers, Thranduil felt a sudden urge to leave his halls and roam under the trees. For weeks he had been sequestered indoors, attending to all the business of a newly crowned king recently returned from war. As much as he loved the halls of his stronghold, he loved the forest more. There was a deep connection between himself and the land, more than his father ever had. Unlike Oropher, Thranduil was born here in Eryn Galen. His mother Berenil had chosen to give birth to her son in the ancient tradition of the Silvan Elves, though she was not Silvan herself. It was her way of honouring the people who had chosen her husband and herself as their king and queen. She laboured and gave birth under the trees, her blood soaking into the ground. The placenta was buried at the base of the tree she had chosen for the birthing rites, sealing her child's connection to these woods and everything in it. Thranduil's first breath had been taken under the trees and his first sight had been blue sky peeking through the branches above. The Elvenking needed the forest, and the forest needed the Elvenking. He could feel the perpetual hum of the earth and hear the forest's gentle song more strongly than other Elves. It called to him now. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly in anticipation as he shed his silver robe and matching outer tunic, leaving them folded neatly over the back of a chair, and carefully placed his crown and rings in their proper places on his dressing table.

Thranduil made his way out of the royal wing and through the halls, unadorned and unaccosted. His heart lifted as the massive stone doors of the entrance came into view. As he approached, the guards pulled open the doors. "I am going out. Do not follow," the Elvenking ordered and breezed past his guards and into the dappled sunlight. He stopped long enough to remove his boots and leave them at the end of the narrow bridge leading into the woods. It would be good to walk beneath the branches of his trees and listen to their quiet song once more. As he disappeared beneath the eaves of his forest the trees welcomed him. Branches bent to gently brush him as he passed, birds and squirrels chirped and chattered their greetings, tendrils of fern and vines joyously unfurled in celebration along the paths he trod, and dancing leaves fluttered down about his head. All around him the Song of the Forest rose and soothed his weary soul. He lifted his voice in a song to match that of the forest and wandered aimlessly, losing track of time, fingers trailing along bark and leaf, bare feet soaking up the energy so readily shared with him by the earth. Inexorably drawn, he finally stopped beneath an ancient oak that grew beside a vigorously flowing little stream. His tree, the one under which he drew his first breath. He sank to the ground and lay on his back with his arms behind his head, gazing up through the tree's branches, his golden hair spread like a halo around his fair face. The Elvenking breathed deeply and drifted into a peaceful reverie as he listened to the Song.

 _aran nin_ \- my king

 **The Brown Lands**

The Entwives were gone. The Ent stood on a slight rise and let his sad, amber eyes drift over the desolate land. Sauron had laid waste to this region during his long war and it remained tainted by his malice; the Ent could feel it seeping from the ground into his feet. Once the Entwives had dwelt here, had planted beautiful, extensive gardens filled with greenery and flowers, orchards and elegant climbing vines, and throughout had meandered cheerfully gurgling streams. All had flourished under the Entwives' tender care and many a small creature had called this paradise home. But now there was nothing. Nothing grew here, nothing lived. The once lush and verdant area was now barren and empty with not a sign of branch or twig, fruit or flower, bird or bee. Where were the Entwives? Had they fled before Sauron's wrath or had they been...

Treebeard could not bear to finish the thought and chose instead to believe that his fair Fimbrethil and the other Entwives still lived. Somewhere. But why had they not come home? Perhaps they sought the help of the Elves in the golden wood or the Elves in the great forest to the north. Treebeard frowned. No, he reasoned, the Elves would surely have sent word either by messenger or bird. Perhaps they had instead fled over the mountains to Eriador. He knew that the area west of the Misty Mountains had once been completely covered in dense forest and that it had been in steady decline over the ages as Men, Dwarves, and orcs ran rampant. Treebeard's frown deepened. The Entwives could have felt drawn to heal those woods if they had indeed been forced to flee and abandon their gardens here. Maybe he should broaden his search, though Entmoot would be in order before any hasty decisions were made in that regard. The others needed to know the Entwives had been lost before he went traipsing across half of Arda.

As Treebeard stood pondering, heavy clouds lazily rolled in, the morning sun trailed slowly across the sky and began sinking beyond the horizon. The dead silence of the place unnerved him and he desperately wished he was back in his beloved Fangorn. Eventually the evening skies opened and a shower of rain poured down. Not even the grandeur of the sunset or the welcome freshness of the rain could redeem this wasteland. An immeasurable sadness took him then and his entire being sagged. He felt empty, hollow like one of those poor trees who had been slowly eaten by voracious insects from the inside out. He turned his large moss-bearded face towards the setting sun and let a deep, mournful bellow escape his throat until the breath left his lungs. The grief filled cry echoed across bare rock and died as abruptly as it began. The Ent turned and trudged back the way he came, raindrops dripping from his bushy eyebrows and mossy beard, his rumbling voice creaking out verse in time with heavy footfalls:  
 _  
When Winter comes, the winter wild that hill and wood shall slay;  
When trees shall fall and starless night devour the sunless day;  
When wind is in the deadly East, then in the bitter rain  
I'll look for thee, and call to thee; I'll come to thee again!_

 _When Winter comes, and singing ends; when darkness falls at last;  
When broken is the barren bough, and light and labour past;  
I'll look for thee, and wait for thee, until we meet again:  
Together we will take the road beneath the bitter rain!_

 _Together we will take the road that leads into the West,  
And far away will find a land where both our hearts may rest.  
_  
Treebeard's mind wandered as far as his feet and before he realised it he stood facing the Anduin. He had not noticed the land or the time passing as he journeyed, so deep were his thoughts. Dazedly he took in his surroundings, as if waking from a lingering dream before crossing the briskly flowing river that sparkled in the spring sunlight. Slow and purposeful he made his way across the vast, golden fields of the Wold toward his forest. His heart lifted once the dark green mass of Fangorn eventually came into view and he quickened his pace, the distance being eaten up by his long strides. It would be good to walk beneath the branches of his trees and listen to their quiet song once more. As he disappeared beneath the eaves of his forest the trees welcomed him. Branches bent to gently brush him as he passed, birds and squirrels chirped and chattered their greetings, tendrils of fern and vines joyously unfurled in celebration along the paths he trod, and dancing leaves fluttered down about his head. All around him the Song of the Forest rose and soothed his weary soul. He lifted his voice into a call for the other Ents to join him for Entmoot. They would discuss the empty devastation he had found in place of their missing Entwives, and for once in his ancient life Treebeard hoped this Entmoot would draw to a swift conclusion.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Treebeard's poem by J.R.R.T, The Two Towers, Treebeard


	4. Haste

**Fangorn** **Forest**

 **Spring, TA 2**

 _(Six months prior to the Disaster at Gladden Fields)_

To an ounlooker it would have seemed as if a circle of very odd looking trees were swaying in a nonexistent wind amid sounds of creaking and low rumbling, but the Entmoot that had carried on over the last several months was finally drawing to a close. As spring ripened into summer, summer bled into autumn, and autumn passed into winter the possible fate of the Entwives had been discussed at length and decisions were made. During the summer months birds had been sent to the Elven realms of _Laurelindórenan_ and _Eryn Galen_ to ascertain if the absent Entwives had been seen, and the unfortunate response received weeks later was negative. At the return of the winged messengers Quickbeam, the youngest and hastiest of the Ents, had eagerly volunteered to search more of the lands east of the Misty Mountains and had proudly set off on his mission before Entmoot had even concluded, much to the disapproval of the more mature and steadfast Ents. This rash action in itself took many days to complain about and after much deliberation it was agreed upon that the impetuosity of youth was no good thing. It was also decided that if no trace was found to the east, Treebeard himself would depart to search west of the Misty Mountains.

There was still no word from the errant young Ent as new spring green once again graced the trees of Fangorn. Treebeard's concern grew to worry just as surely as the tender shoots and buds grew to leaves and blossoms, until one golden spring afternoon a few frantic ravens flew wildly into the woods screeching, cawing, and searching for the lord of the forest. Once located, the bewildered Treebeard was encircled by the flapping black feathered creatures and bombarded with such frenzied squawks that he could only make out the meaning of a few. _Orcs_ and _danger_ being the most repeated, but _Quickbeam_ and _help_ were the ones that prompted him into uncharacteristically hasty action. "Where?" demanded Treebeard. _North_ and _Gladden_ came the reply.

The trees of Fangorn lifted their branches and pulled their roots from the Ent's path as he rushed north over the forest's tracks and trails. He burst forth from the borders of his domain in a flurry of leaves and detritus, causing the poor nesting birds to take to the air in fright, and paused momentarily to get his bearings. Treebeard glanced west towards the sun before fixing his gaze determinedly to the north, then did something he had not done in more than an age: he ran. He ran as if the fiery flows of Oroduin were at his heels. The small creatures who inhabited the Field of Celebrant were the only ones to notice his passing and witness the unusual sight of a fifteen foot tall Ent in full flight, trunk-like legs bounding over the grassy plain, thick arms swinging in time with his stride, and his mossy gray beard trailing behind him. His long legs carried him steadily north, closer and closer to his goal, only stopping to rest once he reached the small river at the edge of _Laurelindórenan._

Treebeard stood with his feet in the soothing water of the gently flowing river as he admired the extraordinary beauty of the huge, golden trees nearby. It had been many years since he had beheld their fairness and he thought to himself that an Ent could be blissfully happy shepherding such trees. He listened to their softly lilting, dream-like song, closing his eyes in appreciation. Upon opening them, he spotted two silver haired Elves observing him with undisguised wonder from the edge of the wood. On silent feet the pair made their way over to the Ent and stopped on the riverbank opposite. They were dressed in muted greens and grays and shrouded with gray cloaks. Each had a large bow in hand and long knives at their hips. Treebeard placidly watched as they placed a hand over their heart and bowed in the traditional Elven greeting. He stiffly returned the gesture, no longer accustomed to interaction with the fair folk of the golden wood.

" _Mae govannen, hîr onod_ ," said the one on the left. Treebeard could not tell whether the two were male or female, or even one of each. Fair of face and voice, graceful and lithe, Elves were more difficult for the Ent to distinguish than their mortal counterparts. The long hair, lack of Elven beards, and the tendency of their females to swing swords, carry bows, and often dress in similar fashion to the males made it even more difficult.

"Hm well. Yes _._ _Mae govannen, galadhrim,"_ rumbled Treebeard.

"Allow us to introduce ourselves. I am Celegon," the one on the left said, "and this is my brother Gilorn." Ah..males then, Treebeard thought to himself.

"It is not often we see an _onod,_ much less two in such a short time," said Gilorn with a smile.

"What? Two you say? Hoom well. Yes. That is something indeed! And when did you see the other?" inquired Treebeard, his deep brown eyes alight with interest.

A glance was exchanged between the pair before Celegon spoke again. "He passed this way during the rains of autumn last. _Bregalad_ he called himself and questioned us as to the whereabouts of your Entwives. He lingered for some time among the _mallyrn_ before moving on at winter's approach."

"A very jolly fellow he was. You are most welcome to visit the golden wood yourself, _hîr onod_. _Aran_ Amroth would welcome you, as would we all," Gilorn offered. "What shall we call you?"

"Call me? Hoom! That is quite a question. I have many names, _galadhrim_. My true name would be too lengthy to speak in haste, even for Elf-kind, I would think. Fangorn I am called by some, Treebeard by others. Take your pick. It is all much of a muchness," the Ent responded with a slight shrug of one large shoulder. At hearing his names, the Elves' eyes widened in recognition. "Hoomm I cannot linger however much I may desire it. I must be off now in search of young Quickbeam. He has been away from his trees for too long and I have had word that he is in danger."

"Do you require assistance in retrieving your wayward charge, _hîr_ Fangorn? We would be most happy to accompany you," Gilorn hopefully offered.

"What? Hm well! No, I think that will not be necessary. As quick as you are, I do not think Elves could keep up with an Ent in a hurry, and I am in no mind to be carrying you. I must depart, young ones, but I thank you for your offer. Hoom, yes." Treebeard replied, momentarily imagining two pale haired Elves clinging to his shoulders for dear life as he dashed up the Vales of the Anduin.

"Then we will wish you a safe journey, _Hîr_ Fangorn, and tell you that our trees and our people will always welcome you. _Namárië,_ " spoke Celegon bowing reverently. Treebeard watched as Gilorn did the same.

" _Namárië_ then, little Elves," and with a small bow Treebeard turned from them and sloshed out of the river, then sprinted off once more to the north.

Gilorn looked to his brother after watching the legendary Ent Lord disappearing into the distance. "We will follow?"

"Aye, brother, we will follow," Celegon replied, and the two disappeared into the forest to supply themselves and inform their king of their intent.

Two more days passed as the Ent followed the Great River Anduin, alternating his loping run with brisk walking. It was obvious he had reached the marshes of Gladden when, near dusk on the second day, his large feet began squelching and sinking into the mud. As pleasant as it was curling his long toes into the soft earth, any appreciation he may have felt was overshadowed by the stench of orc in the air. Treebeard received no answer to his low, creaking, rumbling calls in Entish and saw no sign of the young Quickbeam, but plenty of filth indicating the nearness of orcs. Uneasiness bubbled forth in his chest as he moved his search closer to the riverbank. The beauty of the Anduin in the fading light was marred by the eerie shrieking of foul beasts in the distance, preparing themselves for their foray into the coming darkness.

Treebeard knew there must be an orc nest nearby, either that or they were coming down from the mountains to hunt unwary creatures and unfortunate travellers. He had a desire to exterminate the filth, but finding Quickbeam was his priority. Perhaps after he found the other Ent he would send a message to the Elves of _Eryn Galen_ informing them of the danger. The orcs were near enough to their forest to warrant their concern. The orc problem would need to be dealt with; as the summer and autumn approached more travellers would be making their way to the High Pass before winter snows made it impassable, and the orcs would surely prey upon them.

He let his eyes scan his surroundings, looking for any sign of the other Ent, his gaze drifting over low scrub and scraggly trees until they rested on a large, dark form on the far shore of the Anduin. Treebeard called again in Entish, casting an eye to the setting sun and trying to gauge the distance of the beastly noises carried on the wind. His heart sank further as no answer came. He feared he knew what the huddled shape was and waded into the quickly flowing water to find out for sure. The swift river was no match for the strength of his legs as he made his way carefully across. The cold seeping into his heart had nothing to do with the chill water and everything to do with the unmoving, distinctly Ent-like shape lying on the far shore in the middle of a large patch of scorched grass.

Treebeard stopped in his tracks when he reached the riverbank and instead of climbing out, he simply stood rooted to the spot, water flowing around his still form, staring at the charred remains of what was once Quickbeam. He slowly tilted his head from one side to the other, attempting to comprehend what his eyes were seeing. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. His eyes stared unblinking at one he had loved but who lived no longer, and a frown drew his bushy brows together. How was this possible? Ents were stronger than the earth itself. Who had done this? The answer came to him as soon as the question crossed his mind. "Barárum...orcs!" he spat angrily and began a long string of Entish curses. They must have swarmed the poor, young Ent for him to have been overcome enough to fall to such filth. Treebeard could see where Quickbeam's body had been hewn many times with vicious metal, could see the remnants of a multitude of ropes that had assisted the orcs in pulling him down. Now all that was left was blackened remains on the scorched ground where they had burnt him. Judging by the marks in the soft dirt around Quickbeam's outstretched hands, it appeared as if he had attempted to drag himself to the water to put out the flames that had engulfed him. "He was alive then when they set him ablaze," that thought and the sight of the desperate claw marks drove home the reality of the situation. He vaguely heard someone bellowing, low and mournful, crying out over and over, and after a time realised it was coming from his own mouth.

Drawn by the Ent's wailing, the shrill cries of the orcs grew closer as the sun dipped below the horizon. Treebeard stepped out of the river as they approached, calmly watching the filth flood out of the surrounding scrub, run past low dips and hills, and clamber over large boulders and fallen logs. He positioned himself over Quickbeam's body and clenched his fists. Drawing in a deep breath, he let out a battle cry so terrifying it briefly stopped the orcs in their tracks and sent a good portion of them running in the other direction. Still some distance away, two elves paused in their pursuit at the frightful sound carried through the night, looked to each other with concern and took off running as fast as they could.

Treebeard felt his mind snap in an unholy rage as his large fist connected with the first orc. Fragmented and broken, he distantly felt himself punching, stomping, crushing, pulling orcs apart and flinging their useless parts back into the fray. He picked up orcs and river boulders alike, hurling them into the attacking mass, bowling down bodies, splattering many. He mindlessly and wildly slaughtered his enemies until his hide was slick and shining black with their blood and his feet were caked with their crushed remains. The sea of orcs cowered before his wrath and attempted to flee, but Treebeard pursued. Slowly and unwaveringly he followed them into the wilds and ended as many pitiful lives as he could, only stopping when he could locate no more of their number.

Looking around for more victims and finding none, Treebeard lifted his craggy face to the sky. The moon shone full and bright and beautiful. The sight of its pale light calmed him enough to momentarily bring him back to his senses. "Yavanna, help me," he murmured and closed his eyes as large, warm tears began to flow. His feet carried him back to the river's edge while his mind sought solace in the light of the full moon. He stood once again beside Quickbeam and looked down upon the ravaged face of the young one he had watched grow from an Enting into the beloved shepherd of Fangorn's rowan trees. Not since the First Age had Treebeard witnessed an Ent in death. "This should not have happened. I am so sorry, young one. May the light of Yavanna Kementári guide you home," Treebeard whispered, and bent to remove what was left of the burned ropes the orcs had thrown around Quickbeam. Tossing them aside, Treebeard then brushed a roughened hand over the once bright amber eyes to close them now forever. The shocking sight of his hand blackened with orc blood drew him to the cleansing waters of the river. Treebeard stood for a few moments with eyes shut tightly, just feeling the cold water swirling around his legs. He looked for the light of Yavanna within himself, searching for hope and peace, but found only emptiness.

With a resigned sigh, Treebeard stretched out his arms and let himself fall backwards into the water with a massive splash and drifted downriver with the current, just like the hollow, dead thing he felt he had become. He did not know how long he floated before bumping to a stop along a sloping bank. Grabbing onto jutting roots and rocks Treebeard scrambled awkwardly up. The earth was soft here, soft and welcoming to his long fingers clawing for purchase on his upward climb. Once to the top of the riverbank he let his toes sink into the soft ground, relishing the life he felt within it. Treebeard extended his toes like roots growing into the earth, letting them sink down and down, crumbling any rock or resistance they found on their journey. The Ent looked down at his feet, watching as tendrils of green unfurled, stretched up and began growing around his ankles. Seeing his toes disappearing into the soil he did not resist the urge to allow his fingers to do the same. He bent in half, with great difficulty, and plunged his hands deep into the ground, letting his fingers grow longer and delve deeper into the earth as more delicate vines grew to entwine his wrists and arms. His mossy beard brushed the ground and his deep brown eyes grew distant as he focused on his task. Dig deep. Sleep. Rest. Escape; that is what he desired. His thoughts grew dim and his heartbeat slowed as he retreated into himself and found refuge in the earth. "Yavanna, help me find your light," was his plea, his last thought before giving himself over to become more tree than Ent.

In the pale light of morning, a pair of Elves had come to a halt, their hair shining gold in the sunlight, cloaks moving gently in the breeze as they stood silently taking in the gruesome scene upriver.

"I do believe we have come too late," Gilorn whispered to his brother.

"Aye," Celegon replied, his eyes on the lifeless Ent they had met all too briefly last autumn. "Too late."

 _Laurelindórenan_ _-_ Valley of the Singing Gold, Lothlórien before it was renamed.

 _Eryn Galen_ _-_ The Great Greenwood

 _Mae govannen, hîr onod_ \- Well met, Lord Ent.

 _Mae govannen, galadhrim_ \- Well met, Elves of the golden wood.

 _onod_ \- Ent

 _Bregalad_ \- Sindarin for Quickbeam, "quick (lively) tree"

 _Aran_ Amroth \- King Amroth, ruler of Lothlórien before Celeborn and Galadriel

 _Namárië_ \- Farewell

 ** **Tbc...****  
 ** **Thanks again for reading! Until next time - L.****


	5. Slumber

**(A/N at the end of chapter)**

 _"There are Ents and Ents, you know; or there are Ents and things that look like Ents, but ain't, as you might say."  
-Treebeard  
From The Two Towers by JRRT, Chapter 4_

****

 **Spring, TA 2**

 _(6 months prior to the Disaster at Gladden Fields)_

"What do you think happens to the _onodrim_ after death?" Gilorn's softly spoken question roused Celegon from his gloomy thoughts.

"I know not," Celegon replied, studying his brother's sorrowful expression. "Perhaps the _onodrim_ go to the Halls of Waiting as we do, but I like to believe they return to the Pastures of Yavanna, to wander there with her and tend her creations."

He watched his younger brother whose face was turned up to the cloudless sky. Earlier that morning they had reverently returned the body of the fallen Ent to the earth from whence it came, standing side by side and singing a harmonious lament over the low mound where he was buried. Afterwards they had roamed the area searching carefully for wildflowers and greenery to replant atop the Ent's final resting place, and had even found two willowy saplings willing to be relocated. Together they knelt now resettling the plants into their new home.

"That would indeed be a most fitting end." Gilorn smiled faintly and turned his attention back to replanting the yellow flowers he held in his hands. "How could this have happened?" he murmured, remembering the jovial Ent striding between the tall, golden trees of _Laurelindórenan_. His hands had paused in the dark soil covering the lifeless _Bregalad_. Quickbeam, the Lord of Fangorn had called him. "I did not think an _onod_ would succumb so easily to a pack of _yrch_."

"I would not say he succumbed easily," Celegon replied, thinking of the many wounds inflicted upon the fallen Ent. "And it was no mere pack. Did you not see the field of slaughter? Not all of the bodies were freshly slain either. There were those among the dead who were felled before the arrival of _hîr_ Fangorn. _Bregalad_ took down many before he was slain, but such numbers of _yrch_ could overwhelm even a mighty _onod_." Celegon frowned. "And he was alone." He looked again at his younger brother with the frown still upon his fair face, imagining it was Gilorn alone and fighting for survival surrounded by a sea of orcs. His gut clenched at the thought and he promised himself he would never let such a thing happen.

"We should search again for _hîr_ Fangorn. I saw no sign of his demise, and his tracks led back to the river," Gilorn met his brother's eyes then. "He could have made his way downriver and back home."

"I do not think he would have left poor _Bregalad_ unattended. The sound we heard carried on the wind last night…" the recollection of the cry sent a shiver down Celegon's spine. "I believe after his slaughter of the _yrch_ during the night he may have wandered astray in his grief and anger. And perhaps you are right. It seems likely that he has headed downriver. Come, we will see if we can pick up his trail." Celegon clapped his brother on the shoulder and stood, brushing himself off. He waited as Gilorn did the same, then began walking in a southerly direction.

"Should we not do something about the bodies of the _yrch_?" Gilorn asked, following after his brother and pulling his bow from his back.

Celegon sighed and shook his head. "There are too many for us to pile and burn. Leave them for the crows." His eyes were on the strange tracks of the Ent as they walked and his hands rested on the hilts of the long knives at his hips. "I want us to be well away from this area before nightfall. It is too dangerous," he said with a glance to Gilorn. Something will need to be done about these _yrch_ , he thought to himself. They must be coming down from the Misty Mountains. Why else would there be so many in the area? He would speak with King Amroth about it upon their return. This many orcs posed a serious threat to those living nearby or traveling to the High Pass. Perhaps the king would send word to Thranduil in _Eryn Galen_ since the Woodland Realm was located relatively nearby. _**Aran**_ Thranduil, Celegon reminded himself, knowing the Elf had lost his father alongside Amroth's father Amdír in the war and taken up the crown, just as Amroth had.

The pair stopped at the riverbank where the tracks ended. "You search the east bank, Gilorn, I will search here." Celegon wanted his brother on the opposite side of the river, away from the threat of orcs just in case something happened. The creatures weren't usually out in the bright sunlight, but he did not wish to take chances.

Gilorn slid down the bank on his feet and hopped nimbly over the swift water on top of rocks and boulders. He nodded to Celegon after gracefully ascending the riverbank and readied himself for the search. Bows in hand, the two Elves looked for tracks in the soft earth as the sun passed overhead. The late afternoon sun was warm on his face as Gilorn paused to take in his surroundings and the location of his brother on the far shore. Looking for any sign of the Ent his bright blue eyes scanned the horizon, passing over grassy areas and boulders, clusters of trees and scrub, scanning for movement, before they came to rest on an odd, dark shape near the riverbank not too far ahead. Shading his eyes with his hand he studied the shape a moment before taking off at a run, glancing across the river to see his brother keeping pace with him on the opposite shore.

The closer he drew, the less likely it seemed that the shape was the Ent they were looking for. It was not tall and straight, but bent and crooked. Whatever it was, it was very obviously out of place and unlike any other natural formation nearby. Gilorn slowed and came to a halt as he neared the gnarled shape, and was vaguely aware of his brother agilely crossing the river and drawing up beside him. He frowned as he gazed in confusion at the...tree? No. Not a tree.

" _Hîr_ Fangorn?" He carefully approached the bent shape with his hand outstretched followed closely by Celegon. " _Hîr_ Fangorn, is that you? Are you well?" he asked hesitantly. His hand made contact with the grayish brown hide, but he did not feel the hum of life within.

It appeared as if the Ent had almost broken in half, so stooped was his form. He was bent over with arms stretched to meet the ground, his hands and feet buried in the earth and vines beginning to trail up his limbs, twisting and climbing. As they watched, the pair of Elves could see the vines very slowly creeping. The Ent's long, mossy beard hung low and swayed slightly in the soft breeze. His face was no longer noticeable above the beard; with eyes and mouth closed the Ent was nearly indistinguishable from an average tree.

"Celegon, I do not feel him! His _feä_ is... distant." Gilorn looked to his brother in astonishment. "What has happened to him?"

Celegon drew closer and laid both hands on the Ent. He leaned his forehead against the rough hide and closed his eyes in concentration, but could only feel the faintest flicker of sentience. His dark blue eyes mirrored the concern apparent in his brother's gaze. "He is...absent. He feels like…"

"A tree?" Gilorn finished, his voice skeptical. "I have heard tale of _onodrim_ becoming more like trees as they age and grow weary of the world, but not like this."

Celegon had backed away from the Ent and stood in quiet contemplation. "I do not like this," he muttered quietly. "It does not bode well."

"What do we do?" Gilorn asked in a low voice riddled with worry.

Celegon thought for a moment before he approached the Ent once more with determination and pressed his forehead and hands to the nearly lifeless hide. He closed his eyes and began to chant melodically in the ancient language of the Silvan Elves, words of power long forgotten by many, words meant to draw forth the very soul of the forest and the growing things within it, words once used to awaken nature itself. Gilorn joined him, laying one hand over his brother's and the other on the rugged hide, and together they attempted to call back the _feä_ of the Ent until the sun began to set and the air began to cool. Distant heckling howls and harsh cries of orcs reached their ears, breaking the archaic enchantment they had been weaving, but nothing had changed. The Ent still slumbered.

"We cannot linger here," Celegon spoke slowly, coming out of the nearly trance-like state the words had put him in and looking around, checking the position of the setting sun.

Gilorn still had one hand resting on the Ent, his gaze unfocused. "But we cannot just leave him here. He needs our help," he said dazedly.

"Gilorn," Celegon said firmly, placing both hands on his brother's shoulders. Gilorn's face turned to him, his eyes regaining their focus and his blonde brows knitting into a frown. "We have done all that is within our power. _Hîr_ Fangorn does not wish to be helped else he would have answered our call."

"But…" Gilorn began.

"No. No buts. It is too dangerous to remain. The _yrch_ are stirring. Come. We go." Celegon began walking away, but stopped after a short distance when he realised his brother was not following. He turned and stalked back to Gilorn who still stood next to the contorted, silent Ent. "Brother," he said in a warning tone, "we go."

"There is one who may be able to help," Gilorn said, his gaze fixed on where the Ent's limbs sank into the earth. Raising his eyes to search his brother's face, he voiced his idea. "You know what they say of Thranduil Oropherion. We fought with his people on the Dagorlad. His connection to _Eryn Galen_... perhaps he will come. Perhaps, if we ask it of him, he will help. We are not far from.."

"No!" Celegon exclaimed, cutting his brother short. "We go!" At the hurt look on his brother's face, Celegon softened his approach. "Gilorn, Thranduil has been away from his kingdom too long already with the war. We cannot just march into _Eryn Galen_ unannounced and ask him to leave his realm and come to our aid," Celegon sighed and ran a frustrated hand through his long silvery hair. "We must return. _Aran_ Amroth expects us back. We will explain what has happened and ask him to send word to Thranduil. It is too dangerous for only the two of us to travel to _Eryn Galen_ with so many _yrch_ in the area. We must return home."

"I will go alone," Gilorn stated resolutely. "We cannot just turn our backs and walk away."

Fear clenched its icy fist around Celegon's heart as he heard his brother's words. "No. Please, Gilorn," he pleaded. "We are not truly abandoning _hîr_ Fangorn. Help will be sent, but you must see reason! The _yrch_ are too many, the way is perilous." He stepped closer to his brother and took his face between his hands. "Against the odds we survived all the long years of war. Our father lies now in those Valar forsaken marshes, our brother lies in a mass grave...our mother has sailed West from the grief of it all. You are all I have left this side of the Undying Lands." Celegon pulled his brother into an embrace. "I will not lose you too," he whispered fiercely.

Gilorn stood with his arms by his sides as his brother held him, still of a mind to travel to _Eryn Galen_ and seek out Thranduil. He sighed, and gave in to his elder brother's wishes. "Very well. We go," he said returning the embrace and forcing a small smile as he pulled away. Celegon flashed a grateful smile in return, relieved Gilorn had conceded. With a last look to the lone Ent they began their journey south, back to _Laurelindórenan_.

In the early morning light Thranduil sat at his desk in his private study, not yet dressed for the day and still wearing his morning robe, staring blankly at the small parchment held loosely in his hands. The doors to his balcony were thrown open allowing the breeze to stir the deep red drapes and his long pale hair, and occasionally riffle the parchments stacked neatly on the desktop. Sounds of birdsong drifted in on the gentle currents of air along with the distant rumbling of thunder. A storm approached. He could smell it on the air, could feel the thrum of excitement from the trees who were eager for the rain. The falcon who had delivered the scroll he now held was sitting on the balcony railing contentedly preening its dark gray speckled feathers. Thranduil had read and reread the scroll, but had yet to pen his response. The name signed with a flourish at the bottom had brought back a wealth of memories he would rather not stir, memories of the fateful charge that had cost his father his life. Thranduil swallowed thickly. The sorrow had not diminished, the grief still held his heart.

Amroth. Together they had shared the bitter agony of losing a father. Both kings Amdír and Oropher had fallen in the same ill-fated assault on the enemy's gates, their two sons left behind to wear crowns made heavy with grief and to pick up the pieces of kingdoms shattered by war. Thranduil remembered standing shoulder to shoulder with the golden haired Amroth as their fathers were laid to rest in the dead earth of Mordor, hearing the laments sang over the graves of kings that looked no different from the graves of the common soldiers who had fallen all around them in great numbers. He vaguely remembered getting very drunk with Amroth that night, the two of them consuming much of what was left of their fathers' fine wines, and he remembered the cold weight of the mithril crown that was placed on his throbbing head the next morning. They were both Sindarin rulers of a Silvan people and had pledged to remain in close contact after the war, but this first missive from the ruler of _Laurelindórenan_ was not what Thranduil had anticipated.

Amroth had informed him of an unusually large amount orcs present in the Vales of the Anduin, not far from his western borders, and went on to explain how one of the mighty Ents had been lost to a countless number of the foul beasts near Gladden Fields. Thranduil had read in shocked disbelief how the Lord of Fangorn, after exacting his revenge for the slaying of his kin, had fallen into a mysterious state of deep abeyance. Amroth asked that Thranduil himself travel south and attempt to revive the inanimate Ent, implying that Thranduil's connection with his forest would somehow help. Thranduil, however, was not so sure about that. The threat of so many orcs coming down from the Misty Mountains disturbed him, but the thought of orcs being numerous and coordinated enough to slay an Ent so close to the borders of _Eryn Galen_ disturbed him more. Amroth had advised Thranduil to send a large contingent of Elves to deal with the foul creatures and secure the area near the High Pass. Thranduil shook his head, rerolled the parchment and walked out onto his balcony overlooking his forest. This was not how he expected to begin his day.

The rolling thunder was louder now, the dark clouds on the verge of bursting. He breathed deeply, savouring the scent of rain on the air, his skin tingling with the almost palpable vitality emanating from the eager forest. He gripped the stone balustrade beside the watchful falcon and closed his eyes, letting it all wash over him..the memories, the loss, the Song of the forest, and the oncoming storm. The rain began to fall in slow, heavy drops, dotting his silvery blue silken robe with darker spots, and still he stood with eyes closed and face upturned. The falcon ruffled its gray feathers before flapping its wings and gliding indoors to perch on the back of Thranduil's desk chair, unwilling to keep the Elf company if it meant getting soaked. The wind picked up and the clouds opened in earnest then, letting the rain pour down. Thranduil inhaled contentedly as lightning flashed and thunder cracked. He was drenched in seconds, but welcomed the cleansing downpour as it washed away any doubts he had about his answer to Amroth. He would not order his people to risk their lives defending a land that was not their own. No, they had spilled a sea of blood already at his command and he would not ask them for more. Until the orcs crossed his borders they were not his problem, and he would increase patrols to ensure it remained that way. The Ent on the other hand...now that intrigued him.

Over his long life Thranduil had heard of trees becoming _Entish_ , had even seen it for himself on occasion deep in his own forest. Some trees were merely trees, some trees were half awake and whispering, but there were other trees, dangerous trees, who were wide awake. These trees would ensnare hapless passers by and unwitting forest creatures if they were not careful. These trees the Elves of _Eryn Galen_ avoided. But an Ent becoming _treeish_...that was something of a rare occurrence. Thranduil had only read of such a thing, Ents who had grown weary and uninterested in the world around them, Ents who simply went to sleep and never woke, essentially becoming like the trees they shepherded. He was fascinated and unsure of how he could help, but willing to try. Perhaps he would venture forth, although the matter would need to be brought before his Counsel first. A ruler he may be, but his life was no longer his own; it belonged to the people of _Eryn_ _Galen_ and, unfortunately, he was no longer free to do as he pleased. The realisation faded the serene expression from his handsome face as he turned to go back inside and ready himself for the day. In his busy mind Thranduil began to prepare his argument to the Counsel for assisting the Lord of Fangorn, although he feared it would be a losing battle.

Celegon quickly ascended the _hithlain_ ladder that led to the high _talan_ his brother currently occupied during their month long rotation guarding the northern borders. Gilorn's back was to him as Celegon climbed through the entrance in the floor.

"Good day, brother," Gilorn greeted him without turning around, keeping his gaze focused on the grassy plains visible through the mighty _mallyrn_.

"Good day indeed." Celegon strode over to stand beside his brother, assuming the same watchful stance. "I have received a message from _Aran_ Amroth."

"And? What did he say?" Still Gilorn did not shift his position or his gaze.

"He has received word from Thranduil," At this news Gilorn's attention finally turned to his brother. It had been weeks since the message was sent to Eryn Galen and Gilorn had been in a somber mood ever since. "Thranduil wishes to help but his Counsel will not allow it. They do not wish their newly returned, not to mention heirless ruler, to make the journey and risk his life. Also, he refuses to send any of his people to rout the _yrch_."

Gilorn's hopeful expression hardened and his posture stiffened as he returned his gaze to the border. "And what will become of _hîr_ Fangorn? Will no help be sent?"

" _Aran_ Amroth said he will occasionally send out small parties of volunteers to check on him. One of our best healers has agreed to go with the first group and attempt to revive _hîr_ Fangorn." Celegon watched as his brother's stiff posture relaxed somewhat, then moved off. "I must return to my duty."

"Will we go?" Gilorn asked as Celegon disappeared down the rope ladder.

"We will," came the distant reply.

****

6 months later…

The tree dreamed of green growing things and deep rich earth, as trees are wont to do. It dreamed of vast blue sky, warm rays of sunlight, gentle breezes, and cool drops of rain. But most often it dreamed of a bright golden light and a soft whispering voice. The voice spoke of slumber and long years of growth, of the bliss of digging its roots so deep into the ground that they would pierce the very foundations of Arda itself and the wonder of spreading them so wide as to connect with the roots of all other growing things. The tree found comfort and peace basking in the golden light and listening to the melodic words. It seemed that it had found what it had been seeking, although it could not quite recall what that was. It drifted back into a state of torpor letting its roots sink just a little bit deeper and cling a little bit tighter to the earth, like a child's fingers seeking comfort by clutching at its mother's skirts.

When next the tree became aware, the golden light still shone in its treeish mind but there was something else there as well...something disturbing its restful peace: voices, beautiful voices singing softly of lonely trees and mournful forests, stirring something restless deep within it, calling the tree to wake and rise and remember. But with the singing voices came more dreams, far less pleasant dreams, dreams of infinite sadness and loss, of unending war, of creatures so foul and twisted they defiled all of creation with their mere existence. It dreamed of metal and flames. It dreamed of scorched, barren earth, of a dreadful black tower reaching high into a smoke filled sky, and of a fiery mountain spewing great clouds of ash. It did not like these dreams and again sought the light, gratefully sinking once more into dormancy and rest. The tree slumbered on. 

**Tbc…**

 **Thanks for reading! Questions and comments are always welcome :-) -L.**

 _onod / onodrim_ \- Ent / Ents

 _yrch_ \- orcs

 _hîr_ \- lord

 _aran_ \- king

 _fëa_ \- spirit, soul

 _Bregalad_ \- Sindarin for Quickbeam "quick / lively tree"

 _Laurelindórenan_ \- Valley of the Singing Gold. Lothlórien before it was renamed

 _Eryn Galen_ \- The Great Greenwood

 _talan_ \- open platform built into a tree

 _hithlain_ \- gray, silky material the Elves use to make rope

 _mallyrn_ \- the golden trees of Laurelindórenan

 **A/N: I would like to take a moment and thank you for reading this story, and for the favourites and reviews. It's always encouraging to know someone out there is enjoying what I've written :-D**

 **To those who have reviewed so far:**

 **Rainbow Unicorn: I like the way you think and I'm thrilled you're enjoying the story so far! I can tell you with certainty that the Elves of Mirkwood will play an important role and will follow their Elvenking to whatever end. They are indeed more dangerous, but perhaps not less wise. As for alliances, I cannot yet say. There will also be plenty of evil tree action.**

 **Earthdragon: Thanks for your review, and for your kind review on my other story as well! It's much appreciated. I hope you'll stick with me down this twisting forest path and enjoy where it takes us :-)**

 **The Real Floranocturna: Your words of encouragement are always welcome and it pleases me to no end to know you're enjoying this story! There will plenty of treeish wrath to go round!**


	6. The Least

_**A/N:**_ _I would like to thank_ _ **Elluviel**_ _for her lovely review and for following this story. This chapter was originally VERY long so I've split it into two chapters. Part 2 will be up next week. Thanks for reading! (helpful definitions, etc at the end of story)_

 _ **Valinor**_

Yavanna Kementári sat high atop a hill overlooking her Pastures. Deep in thought, she gazed upon her domain whilst her fingers distractedly caressed a small fawn asleep in her lap. Her vivid green eyes took in the beauty of her work, never tiring of the sight. Spread out before her, vast gardens full of greenery and brightly coloured flowers stretched far into the distance, a forest of impossibly tall trees rose to touch the sky with branches uplifted and leaves whispering on the wind, and in the neat rows of her orchards the boughs heavily laden with fruit dipped low to the ground.

Closing her eyes she breathed in deeply, listened to the drone of fat honeybees flying lazily from bloom to bloom, and let the sweet scent of flowers carried on the warm breeze momentarily distract her from the discord that had been plaguing her mind. Something was wrong somewhere in her creation and fear niggled at her heart. Dark visions came to her and she longed for them to be untrue. Yavanna kept her worries to herself, not even discussing them with her husband Aulë, for she did not wish to hear the judgement of others. There was one who featured prominently in these visions, one with whom she needed to meet, and she knew where he could be found. She sensed him in the distant forest. It was there he preferred to linger when not in her presence, taking joy in the _kelvar_ that dwelled within.

With a gentle word she woke the sleeping fawn and sent it on its way. She rose gracefully, brushing grass from her diaphanous green gown, and watched the fawn scamper back to a group of deer wandering nearby. One of the does ceased her nibbling of sweet berries long enough to dip her head in thanks. Yavanna nodded in return and began to make her way down the steep hill towards the shaded eaves of her forest. The sunlight bathed the tall _Valië_ in golden splendour, glinting off her long, blonde tresses and crowning her head with a shimmering halo of light. Tiny white flowers sprang to life under her bare feet as she walked, her sheer flowing gown caressing them in her passing while butterflies on delicate wings fluttered by to greet her. As she approached the lofty trees her mind honed in on the one she sought and she drifted in his direction. She heard him long before she saw him, his song carried through the trees and joined by the joyous chirping of the birds he so loved.

Yavanna paused at the edge of the clearing he occupied, observing him unnoticed. He sat in the centre with legs crossed, his earthy brown robe discarded carelessly behind him, leaving him in only his white linen shirt unlaced at the collar and deep green leggings. His long dark hair was slightly disheveled from the trio of songbirds that played happily atop his head, chirping, hopping about and fluttering their wings. A tawny squirrel perched on his shoulder twitching its tail and waiting patiently for attention, but currently the _Maia_ 's undivided attention was given to the little russet fox kit sitting on his lap. The creature watched him intently as he sang with its head cocked to one side and a front paw raised as if wounded. Yavanna smiled at the sight of her favoured Maia. Kind and gentle, he loved all of the _olvar_ and _kelvar_ as much as she. He cherished his lady's creations and took great pleasure in tending her Pastures and all those living in them. As she looked on, the Maia carefully took the sore paw in his hand. A soft golden light enveloped the little fox and when the song ended the light receded.

"There now. That was not so bad, was it? Such a brave fellow." His murmured words received a yip of appreciation and after a well deserved scratch behind the ears the kit bounded off into the underbrush.

"Aiwendil," she called to the Maia softly, finally making her presence known. He looked to her then and a happy smile lit his youthful face.

"My lady Yavanna!" Aiwendil rose quickly, unsettling the small creatures from their perches. He bowed deeply as she stepped into the clearing leaving a trail of white flowers in her footsteps. "Forgive me, lady. I did not sense your approach."

"Please do not trouble yourself, Aiwendil, for that is as I intended. I was enjoying your song and did not wish it to end too soon." Yavanna held out her hand and one of the songbirds previously occupying the Maia's hair flitted over to settle on her finger. She gently stroked its feathered chest and at her whispered word it began to sing the tune Aiwendil had finished as it fluttered away. "Come. Walk with me."

"Of course, my lady," Aiwendil replied and bent to retrieve his discarded robe. He shook it out and slipped it on quickly as Yavanna moved closer to him. He looked up from fastening the clasps to see her lips curved in amusement. She reached out and smoothed his chestnut hair back into place, plucking a few stray feathers from his locks and bits of moss and leaves from his robe. He grinned sheepishly as he saw the feathers fluttering to the ground and her light laughter filled the clearing.

She laid a cool hand upon his cheek and he could not help but admire the way her eyes glittered with mirth. "Aiwendil, you never fail to lighten my heart," she said affectionately. "Let us be off." He offered her his arm and she accepted it graciously.

Together they left the clearing and began to wander the forest trails. They walked in companionable silence for a time before Aiwendil spoke. "Kementári, I know your heart is troubled. I can sense it." He stopped and stood before her, his hazel eyes searching her face. "What troubles you, my lady?" he softly asked.

She heaved a deep sigh. "It has been a thousand years since his defeat by the Last Alliance and Melkor's servant stirs once again in the East. Manwë has called a counsel to be held tomorrow night. Something must be done, but as troubling as this is, it is not what troubles me the most." Yavanna turned from him, again wandering slowly. Her fingers skimmed over the rough trunks of the trees she passed, pausing occasionally to listen to their soft whispering. Uneasiness began to creep into his heart at his lady's words yet Aiwendil followed closely behind, patiently waiting for her to continue. "Dark have been many of my thoughts over this last millennium, dark have been my visions, and now they grow in frequency and severity. Something else stirs in Middle-earth, something evil, something...dark." She stopped and turned to look at the Maia. "Something has corrupted my creation there. I have foreseen terrible things to come and you, Aiwendil, are at the centre of it."

" _Me_ , my lady? But what…" Yavanna held up her hand to stop his next question. His shocked and fearful expression tugged at her heart.

"I cannot reveal to you what I have foreseen; these events must play out as Eru intends. I can only tell you that my hope lies with you. I must request that you accompany my husband and me to the Counsel of Manwë. I know emissaries are to be sent across the sea to assist the Elves and Men dwelling there in preparing for the final conflict with Sauron. It is paramount that you be one of them."

"But, my lady, what can _I_ do? I am not as powerful or as great as others of my Order. I live only to serve you and your creation! I know not how to combat this great evil you foresee!" Aiwendil looked upon his queen with wide, worried eyes. _Please do not send me from your presence,_ he pleaded silently.

Hearing his unspoken thought Yavanna enfolded him into an embrace with a sad sigh. "Oh, Aiwendil. I will _always_ be with you, no matter where you walk." She placed a kiss upon his forehead creased with worry and stepped back taking his hands in hers. "I will not force you to go. I cannot. I ask only that you consider my request and believe me when I say that it is _you_ who has the power to succeed where others cannot. You would go as the least, but accomplish the most." Aiwendil's head dropped and his shoulders sagged. Yavanna squeezed his hands sympathetically before releasing him and moving away. Her heart ached for him, but it was imperative that he willingly agree to this long journey. "Aiwendil." He looked up with sad eyes at hearing her speak his name. "You would not be alone in this endeavor if you choose to go. There is one in Middle-earth who carries my blessing. I will leave you to your thoughts."

Aiwendil bowed his head to his lady but did not raise it again. He felt her leave, the warmth of her presence diminishing. He sank to his knees and covered his face with his hands, tangling his fingers in his hair. How could he willingly leave Valinor? Why would she ask it of him, knowing how much he loved her Pastures, and also knowing he could deny her nothing? What power did she see within him? He surely felt none. He began to resign himself to his imminent departure, deciding that he would spend the time remaining visiting his favourite places and burning them into his memory. Who knows when he would be able to see them again?

 _ **Mirkwood**_

The Elvenking's realm slept yet he did not. He lay wide awake atop his bed peering up at the stars through the skylight in the ceiling, hands clasped behind his head and deep in troubled thought. He was still attired in his formal robes of deep red, not bothering to change or even to turn down his blankets after his long day finally ended. Sleep would not find him this night.

Thranduil's forest was falling to shadow and try as he might he could do nothing to stop it. So dark had it become that mortals had even begun calling his beloved _Eryn Galen_ Mirkwood. In the long centuries since Sauron's fall the shadow had grown. It seeped into his very _feä_ and tormented him as he walked the dream paths each night, so much so that in hopes of a dreamless rest he had taken to sleeping only every few days when complete exhaustion claimed him. If he felt the shadow so keenly himself, he knew his forest must truly be suffering. Many of the trees in the southern area had gone silent which disturbed Thranduil more than the ones that cried out. The Song of the Forest was full of discord and fear and the Elvenking could not escape it.

The darkness had begun in the southern reaches and seemed to draw a myriad of foul creatures to it. Vicious packs of orcs and wargs had breached his borders and fought their way through his forest guard, brutally tearing a path through any Elves who stood in their way. Over the last millennium the beasts had holed up in the abandoned fortress of Dol Guldur, striking out from its relative safety to attack the Woodland Realm and any unsuspecting travelers. Thranduil and his army had laid siege to the fortress and emptied it three times since the darkness began, but the cesspool of evil kept refilling. Too many lives had been lost during the endless battles against the shadow in the south, so Thranduil pulled his people farther into the north where it was easier to defend their dwindling numbers and the darkness did not hold sway. Many times during his lonely, guilt ridden nights he would recall the missive sent centuries ago from Amroth advising him to deal with the orcs amassing in the Vales of the Anduin. Oh, how he bitterly regretted his refusal. He had truly believed he was doing the right thing and sparing his people from further death and loss by keeping his army within _Eryn_ _Galen,_ but this did little to assuage his guilt. How many lives would have been saved if he had acted then? Not only the lives of his own people, but those of the mortals now streaming down through the Vales seeking refuge from the wars and Great Plague that ravaged the north.

Every summer for the last several years more Northmen appeared at his borders looking for passage through his vast forest. They came in bedraggled groups with their elderly and infirm, their women and children, their eyes full of desperate need and hidden strength. In the beginning Thranduil denied them entrance, again and again turning the groups away until one of their Chieftains bravely sought an audience with the Elvenking himself. Thranduil shook his head as he remembered the man's audacity, speaking to the Elvenking as if he were his equal while standing before the throne in his filthy furs and leathers. Marhwini he called himself, Horse-friend. An inelegant snort escaped Thranduil's stern facade. Horse-friend indeed! The Northmen did tend to bring more horses than women with them when they came begging at his borders. The Elvenking could not help but respect the man's tenacity and determination, though, and so had granted permission for his forest guard to escort the group southwest towards the Vales of the Anduin. There the men had settled and called themselves Éothéod. Groups from the north still trickled into _Eryn Galen_ but Thranduil no longer minded; the strength of these men, and their sword wielding women, kept his western borders relatively safe, so he could not complain...too much.

Oddly enough these ragged refugees gave his people hope that he himself did not possess. Seeing them pass through the fading Eryn Galen with small children in tow, watching the young mortals laugh and play, reminded his people that there was still joy to be had in the world, that new life still thrived. It had been long since they had hope, another failing Thranduil felt was his, and long since any elflings had been born to the Woodland Realm. With a heavy sigh he closed his eyes to the stars, silently praying for the Valar to give him the strength to endure, to defend his people against the rising shadow, and restore his beloved forest. He pleaded for help, for hope...not for himself but for those under his protection.

 _ **Valinor**_

High in the mountains of Pelóri on the peak of Mount Taniquetil sat _Ilmarin,_ the home of Manwë and Varda. The airy domed buildings of white marble gleamed brightly in the moonlight. Inside, the Highest of the Valar, the _Aratar_ , convened in Manwë's counsel chambers. The circular space was surrounded by many open archways leading to various balconies and small gardens and grottos, giving a nearly unrestricted view of the night sky where the stars of Varda twinkled brightly and a number of large eagles gliding on warm air currents could be seen. Tall, delicate pillars supported the glass dome that crowned the Valar's meeting place. Entwined about the pillars and trailing all around the chamber were vines that could only be found growing in _Ilmarin_ and nowhere else in Valinor. Bejeweled with _ilmalotsë,_

sweet scented night blooming flowers that shimmered silver under the starlight, they were a gift from Yavanna to Varda _._

Yavanna sat quietly beside her husband at the long rectangular counsel table breathing in the sweet scent of the _ilmalotsë_ and watching the sheer drapes of deep blue fabric move in the gentle breeze that blew through the chamber. Nine chairs there were, but only seven were filled for Ulmo rarely left his deep waters and the other chair, the one draped in black silk at Manwë's left hand, would never be filled again since its owner had fallen from grace and into the Void. Manwë sat regally at the table's head with Varda at his right hand. He was resplendent as always in his formal robes of blue and silver, his silver hair glinting in the light of his wife's creation and his deep blue eyes alight with power. To the left of the draped chair sat Mandos attired in misty gray and beside him his similarly robed twin sister Nienna, her deep hood hiding the perpetual sadness of her expression. Oromë, Yavanna's sister-husband, sat next to Nienna and across from Aulë. Oromë had draped himself casually in his seat, drumming his fingers on the table, and looked as if he would rather be elsewhere. Yavanna listened to the voices of the other _Aratar_ as they discussed the future of Middle-earth, but her thoughts strayed to Aiwendil. In her visions she saw him there in Middle-earth yet he had not come to the counsel as she had requested, while two others of his Order waited within the halls to be summoned. Could her visions be wrong? She hoped they were, if only to spare the Maia the fate that awaited him over the sea.

 **Tbc...**

 **I hope you enjoyed it : ) - L.**

 _ **Definitions:**_

 ** _Valië / Valier :_** _female Valar_

 ** _Maia / Maiar:_** _the spirits that assisted the Valar in shaping the world_

 ** _olvar:_** _plants, growing things_

 ** _kelvar:_** _animals, creatures that move_

 ** _Kementári:_** _Queen of the Earth_

 ** _feä:_** _spirit / soul_

 ** _Eryn Galen:_** _Greenwood the Great_

 _ **Pelóri:**_ _a great mountain range in Valinor_

 ** _Mount Taniquetil:_** _highest peak in the_ _Pelóri_

 _ **Ilmarin:**_ _Mansions of the High Airs, home of_ _Manwë_ _and Varda_

 _ **Aratar:**_ _the 8 most revered and most powerful Valar_

 ** _ilmalotsë:_** _starlight flower_

 **The Aratar** **:**

 **Manwë Súlimo:** the Elder King, King of Arda, Lord of Airs (to name just a few of his many titles)

 **Varda Elentári:** Queen of the Stars, Star Kindler, Elbereth, wife to Manwë

 **Yavanna** ** _Kementári:_** _Queen of the Earth, Giver of Fruits, wife to_ Aulë

 **Aulë:** the Smith

 **Ulmo:** the Lord of the Waters

 **Mandos:** the Doomsman

 **Nienna:** the Lady of Mercy

 **Oromë:** the Hunter

 _(I like to think there were 9 before_ _ **Melkor**_ _, brother to_ _Manwë, fell to Darkness)_


	7. Ilmalotsë

**A/N** _at the end of story. Thank you to_ _ **FramedCuriosity**_ _for following and favouriting my story and for your lovely review, and thank you to_ _ **The Real Floranocturna**_ _for your wonderful review (also, I'm looking forward to the next chapter in The Secret of the Forest!)_

 **Valinor**

"Three Maiar will be sent," commanded Manwë. "Who then will go? This we must decide." He looked to his wife sitting at his right side, but Varda's gaze was fixed to the east, the light of the stars reflected in her farseeing silver eyes.

"They must be mighty, peers of Sauron, but if they go…" Varda began distractedly, her eyes still gazing into the night sky. She paused, tilting her head slightly as if listening to a voice no one else could hear. Manwë reached over to her and brushed a lock of her ebony hair behind her ear and took her hand in his. Her eyes refocused as she turned them to her husband and then to the others seated around the table. "If they go they must relinquish the power of the Maiar and clothe themselves in a mortal form."

Mandos shifted in his seat. "But would this not hinder them in their endeavor? Dimming their wisdom and knowledge, confusing them with fears, worries, and weariness. All of these things would be alien to them. How could it be beneficial to deprive them of their power and subject them to these mortal impediments?" He crossed his arms as he spoke, slipping his hands into the voluminous sleeves of his gray robes.

Beside him Nienna studied Yavanna closely, sensing great sorrow within her heart. Her scrutiny caused Yavanna to drop her gaze and grip tightly to Aulë's large callous roughened hand for support. Her husband squeezed her hand in return and brought it to his lips. She gave him a small grateful smile finding comfort in the scratchiness of his beard and the tenderness in his warm brown eyes.

"In this mortal form the Maiar will be able to meet on equal ground with Men and Elves and earn their trust," Manwë explained. "It is of utmost importance that they work to unite the races and drive them to great deeds so that when Sauron returns in force Middle-earth will survive. Eru will not allow the people of Middle-earth to be ruled or influenced by any power the Maiar possess. The great deeds must be accomplished of their own free will, we send only guidance," Manwë spoke with finality and a pointed glance towards Yavanna. "Now who shall be sent?"

"My lord, I will send Curumo. He has volunteered for the task and is eager to carry out your will. As Sauron was one of my Maiar of old I feel it only right that I now send my most powerful," Aulë's deep voice resonated in the large marble room. At his summons the proud Curumo entered the counsel chamber. He bowed formally to the Lords and Ladies seated around the table, his long black hair falling over his shoulders and casting his face in shadow.

"I am here to serve you and the will of Eru, my Lord Manwë. It would be my honour to lead the _Istari_ in our preparations of Middle-earth," he stated smoothly. He stood confidently in his striking white robes before the assembled _Aratar,_ back straight and head held high.

Manwë nodded his acknowledgement. "Very well, Curumo. You will go as the First of your Order, a place of high honour." The Maia bowed his head in acceptance and moved to stand against the wall behind Aulë.

Oromë spoke up then as he sat straighter in his chair and smoothed his deep green tunic. "I will send Alatar. He has also agreed to make the journey, though I believe he wishes to travel farther afield than perhaps you intended. He seeks to study the Eastern tribes of Men, having heard that they practice dark magic there. If this is true, these tribes may interest Sauron in the future. He would be eager to take advantage of whatever darkness abides in those lands. It may be prudent to have one there to combat his machinations."

Alatar came forth in his sea blue robes, his intelligent eyes sparkling with anticipation and excitement for knowledge yet to be discovered. "I am here to serve you and the will of Eru, my Lord Manwë. I thank you for the opportunity," he said with a deep bow.

Manwë again nodded his acceptance. "Very well. Alatar will accompany Curumo as the Second."

The king of the Valar looked around then, searching for someone through the archways lining the circular room. "Where is Olórin?" he asked his wife.

Varda turned her attention back to the east, eyes glazing over once again. "He returns from his journey. He will arrive before long."

Curumo could be heard heaving an impatient sigh. "Always late," he muttered crossing his arms. Aulë sent him a warning glance over his shoulder. "Your pardon, my lord," he quickly apologised.

Oromë stood and stretched. "Well, while we await Olórin we should use this time wisely. Wine and refreshments?"

With murmurs of assent a few of those assembled stood from the table to partake in the light repast laid out on a sideboard.

Yavanna rose and placed a kiss on her husband's whiskered cheek then sauntered over to one of the archways leading out to a small balcony where the _ilmalotsë_ had taken up residence. She touched the silver blooms growing around the railing and smiled as tendrils of vine wrapped around her fingertips in welcome.

"Your gift brings me joy whenever I look upon them. It appears they have missed you," Varda's soft voice sounded behind her. The golden haired Queen of the Earth turned to greet the raven haired Queen of the Stars.

"Perhaps, but they thrive here under the light of your stars." Yavanna's small smile quickly faded and the two then turned their attention to the view of the surrounding mountains and the graceful eagles soaring around them in the moonlight.

"I know the worry you carry, Yavanna, I know your fear and your guilt, for Manwë and I have also seen the visions that haunt you. Did you think we would not?" Varda's eyes did not turn from the eagles' flight as she reached out to grasp Yavanna's right hand. "You are not to blame for the darkness that is to come. It is not your doing. Something else is at work in Middle-earth. A great evil stirs."

At the _Elentári's_ gentle reassurance, Yavanna felt her grief surface and tears spill down her cheeks. She feared for her creation in Middle-earth, she feared for Aiwendil, and she feared she was to blame for the coming darkness. As her tears spilled onto the silvery flowers their petals folded at their lady's sorrow, catching the droplets within. She felt her left hand enfolded into another. Nienna. Yavanna looked to the gray maiden, sad silver eyes meeting the vivid green of the Kementári, and felt some of her anguish slipping away as the Lady of Mercy took it upon herself.

Varda plucked one of the tightly closed silver flowers. "Aiwendil will fulfill his purpose if the events we have foreseen come to pass. Do not fear a mere possibility. Do not be troubled. Come. Let us rejoin the others," she said as she turned over Yavanna's hand and placed the flower gently onto her waiting palm with a knowing look before gliding away.

Yavanna studied the delicate blossom in her hand and drew a shaky breath to calm herself. Nienna, who rarely spoke unless she had something of import to say, reached up to dry her tears. "At least do not be troubled alone, Kementári. I am here should you need me," she whispered and left to reclaim her seat beside her brother.

Aulë still stood in conversation with Oromë near the refreshment table but took his leave upon seeing his wife's approach. Concern creased his brow when he noticed her doleful expression. "What troubles you, my wife?" he asked and took her face in his hands.

She placed her hands over his and looked up into his eyes. "We will speak of it later. There is much I must tell you." She sent calming waves of golden warmth into his mind, soothing his worry, and watched his lips curve into a slow smile.

"Olórin! You have arrived." Manwë's booming voice drew the couple's attention and they returned to their places. "We have a task for you, my friend, if you agree to it."

Olórin looked slightly taken aback. "A task, my lord? What is it you would have me do?" His sharp blue eyes took in the assembled company, noting especially his peers standing behind their lords. He had obviously just returned from a long journey. His gray attire was muddied and crumpled, his long blonde hair knotted and wild, and he smelled distinctly of horse.

"I would have you go as the Third of your Order as an emissary to Middle-earth. You will accompany.." Manwë was interrupted by his wife's hand on his arm.

"Not the Third," Varda firmly spoke. Her husband's silent question spurred her on. "He will not go as the Third of his Order. He will go as the Second." She unflinchingly met the piercing glare of Manwë as they appeared to share silent words.

Eventually he inclined his head, acquiescing to his wife's wishes. "Very well. Olórin, you will go as the Second of the Istari if you agree to the journey. Eru wills that we send members of your Order to Middle-earth, to prepare and unite the races dwelling there for the final battle with Sauron."

"Sauron?" Surprise was evident upon his face before the Maia frowned down at his muddy boots. "My Lord Manwë, I do not think I am strong enough for this task. I have not the power to stand against such an evil."

"All the more reason that it be you who represents me in Middle-earth, Olórin. If you believed without question that you were strong enough to battle Sauron I would have my doubts about you."

Olórin raised his gaze to see his lord smiling at him benevolently. "It will be as you wish then. I am here to serve you and the will of Eru, my Lord Manwë."

"Good. That is settled then. The three have been chosen. I have not yet determined when you will leave. Perhaps not all of you will depart at once. I will inform you of my decision when it is made." Manwë began to rise.

"A moment, please, my Lord Manwë, my Lord Oromë," Alatar stepped closer to the table. The studious Maia hesitated, seemingly unsure of himself. "May I make a request, my lords?" Manwë motioned for him to continue and Oromë simply raised an eyebrow, already sure he knew the question. "I would like to bring Pallando with me. We have been companions for so long, he does not wish me to leave him behind. And besides, I would feel safer traveling into the Eastern lands with another." Alatar fidgeted with his sleeves while behind Aulë Curumo rolled his eyes.

Manwë thought for a moment. "Granted. You shall go together. Pallando will be the Fourth," he finally agreed. Alatar bowed and beamed in gratitude. "That will be all. We will adjourn for tonight."

Curumo could not hide his displeasure. To know that the King of Arda deemed Olórin as his near equal was a sore blow and now another of Oromë's people had been added to their number. This journey was going to be more bothersome than he originally expected. He shook his head as he strode briskly from the counsel chamber only to bump into Aiwendil lingering in the archway. "What are _you_ doing here?" The question came out more harshly than Curumo had intended. He was not overly fond of the flighty Maia but he tolerated him for the sake of his lord's wife, whom he greatly respected.

"I was summoned by my Lady Yavanna, but I fear I have come too late." Curumo studied him curiously for moment, Aiwendil calmly meeting his gaze.

"It is not too late, Aiwendil. I am pleased you finally decided to join us." The Maiar's eyes turned quickly to their king at his jovial greeting and saw Manwë beckoning Aiwendil forward. "You were expected, but I did wonder if you would decide to come. You have made your decision then? Will you go as the Fifth Istari?" All eyes turned to Aiwendil watching his hesitant approach, except for Aulë's which were turned to his wife in curiosity.

Aiwendil's slow steps brought him nearer to the Elder King and he bowed deeply to the group of _Aratar_ standing before him. "I have made my decision. If my lady says I am needed in Middle-earth, then to Middle-earth I will go. I am here to serve you and the will of Eru, my Lord Manwë," he glanced to his lady, "my Lady Yavanna." Manwë raised his brows.

"All is as it should be then." The Lord of the Valar held his hand out to his queen and shared a serene smile with her as she took it. "I bid you all a pleasant evening."

Alatar shot Aiwendil a sympathetic glance as he followed the royal couple and remaining Valar and Valië out of the chamber. He had not missed the irritation that had flashed across Curumo's stern face.

Only Yavanna and Aulë, Curumo, and Aiwendil remained in the counsel chamber. "What have you done, Yavanna?" Aulë asked bemusedly.

"Forgive me, my husband, for not confiding in you." She moved before him and gently placed her hands on either side of his face. Drawing a deep breath and closing her eyes, she opened her mind to him, showing him her visions, her fears, and her guilt.

Aulë's eyes widened and he took hold of her wrists, slowly bringing her hands from his face. "Oh, my beloved," he whispered. "You have suffered needlessly." He placed a gentle kiss upon her forehead and thumbed away a teardrop that had fallen onto her smooth cheek. "We will speak tonight. All will be well," he promised. "Come, Curumo, let us go." He clapped the Maia on the shoulder and began to lead him from the chamber.

"Curumo? You will look after him, will you not?" Yavanna asked, her delicate hands clasped to her breast.

All the irritation and anger Curumo had felt fled when he turned to look upon the Kementári. Her pleading green eyes and her golden warmth softened his heart. "Aye, my lady. I will, to the best of my ability." Her brilliant smile was all the thanks he needed and he felt quite at peace as he followed his lord to the winding staircase.

Yavanna turned to Aiwendil once they were alone and taking his hand led him through one of the archways and into a small garden. "Sit with me, Aiwendil." She gracefully seated herself on a marble bench beside a crystal clear pool. The soothing sound of water bubbling up from a natural spring within the pool filled the garden, and fish as white as snow glided through the cool, dark water.

Aiwendil took his place beside Yavanna. "Forgive me, my lady, for I tarried too long in your forest and did not come when you needed me."

"But you did come, and I thank you," she whispered and gently touched his cheek. His fragile and wavering smile spoke of the doubt still within him, but his resolve shone in his eyes.

"I do not understand what it is you think I can accomplish in Middle-earth, my lady, but I trust you. You are my queen and I will serve you however you see fit."

Yavanna watched the pale fish gracefully swishing around the rocks in the pool, starlight reflecting on its dark surface. "Sauron is not the only threat to Middle-earth, nor is he the most dangerous. The corruption runs deep. As deep as the foundations of Arda. Your arrival will set in motion a great many things." She bent and let her fingers disturb the surface of the water, sending ripples throughout. "Only _you_ , out of all the Maiar _,_ are connected so deeply to my creation, to me. Only _you_ have the power within to stand against what will come. But you will not stand alone." Yavanna raised her eyes from the watery depths and fixed them on Aiwendil. When next she spoke, the true power of the _Ainur_ was in her voice and in her eyes. "Seek out the one who carries my blessing. Find him before the darkness does. He will be your greatest ally, or your greatest enemy should you fail. When you arrive in Middle-earth your memories of Valinor will fade, but you will remember my words. Your power will be diminished, your body will age, but you will still be mine. You will not forget your obligation to the Kementári."

Aiwendil's wide hazel eyes finally blinked and he felt as if he was coming out of a spell. "I am ever your servant, my queen," he vowed.

Yavanna's smile was sweet and her eyes were their usual brilliant green, no longer alight with frightening power. "And I am ever thankful that you are." She held out her hand to him and unfolded her long fingers, revealing upon her palm the tightly closed silver flower from the vines of Varda. "Take this and keep it safe. You will need it before the end."

Aiwendil looked at the flower and then his lady. " _Ilmalotsë_ ," he murmured. Her eyes held a sadness so profound it made his heart ache. Hesitantly he took the blossom. It felt strangely warm in his hand, alive, and its sweet perfume filled his senses. As he held it, the shimmering silver faded to gray and the soft petals grew hard as stone, but the strange warmth remained. He bowed his head and clasped the flower tightly, bringing it to his chest. "I will treasure your gift always, my lady."

"The tears of the Kementári go with you, Aiwendil. Do not forget."

 _ **Mirkwood**_

Thranduil stood alone facing a vast darkness, a darkness so heavy he could hardly breathe. It seeped into his forest from the south like fog and spread among the trees like a plague, their boles blackening and leaves desiccating. He looked on, frozen in place, as his forest guard who patrolled the wooded paths were consumed by the darkness, overtaken one by one, disappearing into the murky haze with soundless screams, their hands outstretched and their eyes pleading for help he could not give. Tendrils of inky black slithered around his ankles and up his legs drawing his attention to the forest floor. He watched in dismay as the sinuous roots of diseased trees burst forth from the muddy ground and slowly snaked their way in his direction. He attempted to back away and draw his sword, but the tendrils tightened and spread up to bind his chest and arms. The roots began merging before him, growing and twisting and binding together, rising slowly from the ground and forming a lumbering, hulking beast that towered over him. Unearthly glowing green eyes sluggishly opened, blinking to life in what should have been its face, and focused on the captive Elf. Dread washed over the Elvenking and his heart pounded within his chest as he warily watched the monstrous form approach. The ground shuddered with the creature's every step, its body creaked and groaned like a tree in a storm as its long arm reached for him, the roots stretching and weaving to form a searching hand with spindly, gnarled fingers. The hand grabbed Thranduil around his torso, pinning his arms to his sides, and lifted him, plucking him free of the tendrils and bringing him closer to the nightmarish visage. With the sound of splintering wood a great mouth split and hung open loosely beneath the glowing eyes. Streams of viscous blackness oozed from it and flowed quickly down the massive arm to the Elf. Thranduil's eyes widened in horror and he attempted to cry out, but the blackness coated his skin like oil and filled his lungs like water. No sound escaped his lips, no breath could penetrate the obstruction, and briefly his mind wondered if this would be how he met his end. A whisper like death itself came brokenly from the gaping maw, though the disjointed mouth did not move to form the words, "Elvenking. I...see...you." The ghostly voice chilled Thranduil to his core. Green mist poured from the creature's luminous eye sockets as it drew him nearer and began to squeeze. Desperate for breath, the Elvenking struggled but no air could find its way past the blackness filling his lungs. He could feel his ribs cracking as the woody hand tightened and his vision began to darken, the sound of his own bones breaking blending with the creaking and popping of wood. "You are mine," the voice promised before fear took him blackness swallowed him.

 **Tbc...**

 **Helpful Definitions:**

 **Istari -** wizards

 **ilmalotsë** \- starlight flower

 **Elentári** \- Queen of the Stars

 **Aratar** \- the Highest and most revered of the Valar

 **Ainur -** immortal spirits existing before creation, the first beings made by Eru

and if you didn't already know...

 **Curumo -** Saruman, or Curunír in Sindarin

 **Olórin** \- Gandalf,or Mithrandir in Sindarin

 **Alatar & Pallando** \- the mysterious blue wizards who disappeared into the East

 **Aiwendil** \- Radagast

 **A/N: Questions and comments are always welcome and appreciated. If you want a bit of insight into** **Manwë** **'s counsel and the selection of which Istari were to be sent to Middle-earth, I suggest having a read of Tolkien's Unfinished Tales (Part 4, Chapter 2). He only had vague outlines and sketchy notes, but it's interesting reading. I have, of course, taken EXTREME liberties when fluffing out the details ~_~ Thank you, everyone! Until next time...L.**


	8. Awakened Pt 1

_**A/N**_ _at end of chapter_

 **Mirkwood**

"Fear not the darkness." The soothing whisper wove its way through his dimming thoughts like a shining thread, a lifeline he struggled desperately to grasp. Calm, golden warmth finally enveloped him, chasing away the suffocating blackness.

Thranduil clawed his way to consciousness and drew in a deep, ragged breath. His eyes flew open and he clutched at his wildly racing heart, gasping for air as if he was starved for it. He lay motionless but his eyes darted around the room frantically, assuring himself he was actually in his own chambers and not surrounded by shadow. The pale light of Elbereth's stars still shone down on him through the skylight above his bed, gently illuminating his surroundings. He could feel the soft blankets beneath him, could feel the raised embroidery of the fine material he gripped in his hand and the pounding of his heart under it, yet the fear that he was not where he seemed to be still loomed heavily.

Thranduil gingerly raised himself to sit on the edge of the bed, his booted feet planted firmly on the intricately woven rug that had once adorned his mother's chambers. His usual grace had deserted him, leaving him shaky and uncertain. His body felt battered and bruised, his lungs burned, his ribs ached, and his heart pounded painfully in his chest. He felt as if he had come directly from battle instead of dreams.

He rubbed his chest absently whilst his mind sought reason. _What_ _ **was**_ _that dreadful beast that had risen from the forest floor? Why had it invaded his reverie? Why had it felt so_ _ **real**_ _?_ It seemed the growing shadow infected the paths of his dreams as much as it infected the paths of his forest. As with most Elves not possessing the gift of foresight, the dream paths had only ever brought Thranduil to echoes of places and experiences, to memories both good and bad. He had never had what one would call a prophetic dream, had never experienced a dream so tangible, so terrifying. _Could it mean something?_

Lifting an unsteady hand to brush away the cold sweat trickling down his brow, Thranduil tried to calm his breathing and slow his rapid pulse. He caught sight of his trembling fingers as he lowered his hand and stared at them in dismay. Instead of the glistening perspiration he expected to see on his fingertips there was pitch black liquid. Thick as oil and creeping slowly as if possessing a will of its own it covered and dripped from his fingers onto his lap while thin lines of it moved up the back of his hand and over his wrist, disappearing under his sleeve. His eyes widened in shock and he shook his head. "No," the denial escaped his lips in a whisper as he watched the inky tendrils of his nightmare slither over his skin, black splotches slowly growing and spreading into the deep red fabric of the formal robe he still wore.

He lurched from the bed and rushed to his dimly lit washroom throwing the door open with such force it banged against the wall. "I am still within the dream. I must be," he muttered to himself as he clumsily grabbed a delicate silver ewer with quivering fingers and tipped fresh water into the marble basin. He plunged his hands into the cool water and rubbed them vigorously to rid himself of the vile substance, soaking the edges of his sleeves in the process, but it clung to his skin. Instead of washing away it smeared over his hands and wrists, coating them and leaving them dirtier than before. He reached for the pine scented soap that sat in a silver dish beside the ewer and lathered it onto his hands, scrubbing even harder, but still the stains remained.

Thranduil swallowed the lump of panic forming in his throat and raised his eyes hesitantly to the large round mirror above the marble basin, fearing what he might see. He shook his head in disbelief. "No. No, this isn't real," he reassured himself. The viscous black fluid coated sections of his long hair and left his sullied locks hanging heavily, grimy black mixing with pale blonde. His forehead was smeared and dark rivulets trickled down from his scalp to his cheeks. He attempted to rub the foulness from his face but only succeeded in spreading it further. Thranduil squeezed his eyes closed

hoping that when he reopened them everything would be as it should be, that he would finally wake from this nightmare. His hands fell weakly back into the water with a splash, sloshing the basin's contents over the side and onto the floor. He took several deep breaths attempting to calm himself, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, before slowly opening his eyes and meeting his own gaze in the mirror. The darkness remained but there was something else, something even more horrifying; the eyes peering back at him were not his own. They were not the cool blue inherited from his father; they were the unearthly green of that monstrous creature and held the same eerie glow. His breathing quickened and he felt the panic rising once again. He looked back down at his discoloured hands lying limply in stark contrast with the white marble of the basin, and clenched them into fists. "No," he whispered.

Lifting his eyes once more to the mirror his trepidation was gradually consumed by the flames of anger. He stared back with hatred at his reflection, the green glow in his eyes flaring even brighter with fury, tendrils of black slowly creeping up his neck from beneath the high collar of his gray tunic. The Elvenking roared in defiance at the sight before him, teeth bared and face contorted with a ferocity he had only ever displayed in the heat of battle, the glowing green eyes and dark marks lending him an even more frightful air.

Infuriated, he drew back his right arm and struck his mirror image directly in its unnatural face, his fist driving through his reflection and into the stone wall behind. The glass shattered on impact tinkling down in a glittering rain. Thranduil stood breathing heavily, his fist poised to strike again with knuckles dripping crimson blood, staring in shock at the swaying, now-empty gilded frame. His gaze was soon drawn to the bright red droplets falling from his hand. He listened, entranced, to the soft patter as they fell and looked on in morbid fascination as they splattered onto the broken shards and into the water leaving delicate trails and clouds of red in their wake. Thick globules of black soon joined the red, chasing and engulfing, before sinking heavily to settle on the bottom of the basin as if sated from their feast of blood.

The sound of hurried footsteps and briskly shouted orders snapped the Elvenking out of his daze. He slowly lowered his fist and turned his attention to the carved oaken door of his chambers. He listened wide eyed as Himdir, the captain of the Royal Guard, knocked and called to him from the other side. Thranduil opened his mouth to reply but could not find the words nor the will to answer. Instead he found his eyes wandering back to the sight of his tainted image reflected back to him hundreds of times over in the fragments of shattered mirror. Himdir's courteous knocks and polite inquiries turned quickly to insistent pounding and concerned shouts when his king failed to answer. Thranduil knew the Royal Guards would soon force their way into his chambers to investigate the commotion; he could not let them see him in this state. Dreading their reaction to his appearance and not prepared for explanations he quickly shut the entrance to the washroom seconds before the great oaken door swung open and spilled forth what sounded like every guard posted on the royal wing. He could hear them as they spread out to methodically search his rooms for any sign of a threat or a struggle and, leaning his forehead against the door, wondered briefly if he had left behind a trail of black droplets leading to the washroom. Thranduil heaved a resigned sigh as he heard the familiar footsteps of Himdir approaching.

" _Aran nin!"_ the captain called from the other side, his fist banging urgently on the door. "We heard shouting and a crash. Are you hurt? Do you need help?"

Thranduil lifted his head and stared at the closed door for a long moment, picturing Himdir's concerned face on the opposite side just in front of his own, before finding the words to answer. "All is well, captain. There is no danger, merely a mirror broken in anger. Your assistance is not needed." He made sure to use his most authoritative and dismissive tone to ensure swift obedience, yet to his own ears his voice sounded disconnected and far away.

"Shall I send for housekeeping then, _hîr nin_?" the captain inquired.

"Did I _ask_ for housekeeping?" Thranduil snapped angrily, instantly regretting the vicious edge to his words. With a growing sense of detachment he observed the red droplets as they continued to splatter onto the floor in a growing puddle, the dark splotches of ebony that fell alongside sluggishly mixing with and consuming the red.

"If you are certain you are well, _Aran nin_..." Himdir's voice was skeptical and unsure. "Please forgive the intrusion."

Thranduil heard him resheath his sword and relay orders to his men. The footsteps of the Royal Guards retreated, but he could tell the captain hesitated near the washroom before following them out, probably debating the wisdom of questioning the Elvenking further. Thranduil heaved a sigh of relief when he heard the heavy oaken door finally click shut.

Opening the washroom door a crack to ensure he was truly alone, he noted a few lamps had been lit by the guards during their search. Thranduil raised his throbbing hand to eye level, elevating it to slow the flow of blood and resulting in the unpleasant sensation of wet warmth trailing beneath his sleeve and toward his elbow. He inspected the lacerations with a frown. Most were relatively superficial but one of the slices on his smallest finger was so deep the white of his knuckle could be seen through the wide gash. Such a thing would normally require stitching but there was a good portion of flesh missing that made stitching it back together impossible. He would just have to make do. Glass was still embedded in his skin, some driven deeper by his fist's impact with the wall behind the mirror. He winced at the sight and very carefully removed the ornate rings he wore on his first and third fingers, dropping them among the shards on the washstand, and began to pick out the invasive slivers and flick them carelessly to the floor. Glancing around for something he could use as bandages, his eyes fell on the cupboard containing fresh white bath linens. Broken glass crunched beneath the soles of his black boots as he made his way over, studiously avoiding looking at his many reflections in the mirrored shards littering the floor and wash stand.

Using his teeth and good hand he tore one of the cloths into long strips and brought the makeshift bandages along with another clean cloth over to the ruined wash stand. Draping the linens over one shoulder, he checked inside the ewer for broken glass before pouring cool, clean water over his bleeding knuckles. The blood washed away, the blackness did not. Unsure what else to do to rid himself of the stains, he pressed the clean cloth to his wounds keeping his hand elevated until the bleeding stopped. A sharp hiss of pain was drawn through his teeth when he finally pulled the bloodied cloth away only to find it stuck to the worst of the cuts. He soaked the material in what remained of the water until it came away easily, then wrapped his damaged knuckles with the linen strips leaving only the tips of his fingers free.

Thranduil surveyed the room taking in the wreckage. Fragments of shattered mirror, splatters of blood, and large splashes of black soiled the usually pristine condition of his washroom. Bloody handprints smudged the smooth wood of the washroom door. The stains on his burgundy robes of state and gray tunic were probably permanent, not to mention the silken shirt underneath. His housekeeper was going to be less than pleased. He could picture clearly her ire upon seeing the damage he had wrought.

A bubble of hysterical laughter threatened to burst forth from the Elvenking at the ridiculous thought. His lips twitched as he attempted to contain it, to swallow it down, but he failed. He stood amidst broken glass and his own blood, tainted with a creeping darkness, living his nightmare, and all he could do was laugh uncontrollably, tears streaming down his cheeks. Thranduil clutched his aching ribs, bending double and gasping for air between gales of laughter whilst trying to contain this unwanted mirth that felt more like madness.

The laughter ceased abruptly and silence fell when he caught sight of himself in a few of the larger shards of mirror at his feet. He stared down at the sobering reflection, the smile slowly fading from his lips as he took it in - the dirtied hair dangling around his face, blackened smears and ominous marks upon his skin, garments ruined with splotches of dark red and pitch black, a haunted look in those luminous, unnaturally green eyes. "What is happening to me?" he murmured.

Thranduil straightened quickly, feeling an overwhelming need for fresh air and the undeniable urge to be surrounded by his forest. _But what if that..._ _ **thing**_ _...is out there? If this is real then so must it be._ The thought sent an icy chill racing throughout his body, from the top of his scalp to the tips of his fingers and settling heavily in his core. Fear. He did not often feel it. His people could be in danger. Eyes widening at the thought and at the memories of his Forest Guard being swallowed by darkness, he knew what he had to do.

The Elvenking unfastened his ruined robe, letting it drop in a pool of red at his feet, quickly followed by the silvery gray tunic and silk undershirt. He strode forth purposefully from the washroom clad only in his leggings and boots, glistening trails of dark marks upon his arms and torso, and went directly to his weapons cabinet.

Thranduil stood before it with his stained fingers resting lightly on the double doors. It had been a gift from the Silvan population at his birth and had been crafted by many skilled hands, all contributing a small part to its completion. The cabinet stood as tall as he and was made of a rare ebony wood imported at great expense. Its sides and edges were intricately inlaid with gracefully flowing branches, scrolling vines, and delicate leaves. The paler woods used for the inlays were all given willingly by the many different species of trees making up the forest of Eryn Galen. In the centre of each door was an inlaid image of Thranduil's tree, the great oak he had been born under. He lovingly caressed the images of his tree before opening the doors to reveal the gleaming and deadly metal inside.

An array of swords, knives, and bows were kept safe within but in pride of place resting on black velvet were his twin curved Noldorin swords. Brought by his father from Beleriand long ago, they were bequeathed to him with great ceremony at his coming of age. They had seen him through long years of war and were as familiar to him as his own limbs. The blackened fingers of his left hand ran lightly along the swirling patterns and ancient words of warding engraved into the bright blades, feeling a growing warmth emanating from the usually cold steel. A slight frown creased the brow of the Elvenking as he reached past the swords and into a far corner of the cabinet to retrieve his old Forest Guard uniform, a reminder of his time served amongst the Silvan people. The well worn linen undershirt and leather jerkin slid comfortably into place, his practiced fingers quickly fastening the closures despite the awkward bandaging of his right hand. Thranduil began wrapping his tooled leather belt around his waist before thinking better of it and removing the scabbard from the left side. He would not be able to effectively wield a sword in his damaged right hand so decided with slight regret to leave one of the pair behind. After cinching the belt around his waist he arrayed himself with his favoured weapons as he had countless times before when patrolling with the Forest Guard in centuries past. Boot knives and wickedly sharp dagger in place, the Elvenking finally reached for one of his beloved swords.

His long, darkened fingers wrapped reverently around the familiar silver hilt and lifted the blade from its resting place leaving the other companionless. The hilt felt strangely warm in his hand and grew warmer still as Thranduil sliced the sword through the air in a well rehearsed pattern drilled into him from the time he was old enough to first grip a wooden practice sword. The Elvenking eyed his blade with confusion and ceased his graceful movements as the warmth blossomed into uncomfortable heat. The hilt grew white hot in his blackened hand and he gasped in pain, letting the curved blade clatter to the floor. Thranduil's unsteady breathing was the only sound to be heard as he studied his palm, looking for signs of blisters but seeing none. He knelt to retrieve the dropped blade, his fingers testing the hilt and drawing back quickly from the lingering heat.

"What is the meaning of this?" The quiet question went unanswered though his mind whirled with possibilities. Once more he attempted to retrieve his blade and once more he was burned. Not to be deterred, he rose with a huff of frustration to fetch a pair of leather gloves, shoving his left hand into one angrily. Steeling himself for another burn he knelt and tightly gripped the hilt of his sword, smiling triumphantly when he was able to hold it without pain. With a smirk he slid the blade home into its scabbard and looked thoughtfully back into the cabinet. Would he be able to draw his bow? He flexed the fingertips of his right hand, considering. Perhaps, but not quickly and not without pain. Regretfully deciding to leave his bow behind Thranduil gently closed the doors with head bowed, his hands leaving behind little smears of black on the precious wood. Would everything he touched now be so tainted?

"No more of this," the Elvenking told himself and moved quickly to his balcony doors. He was eager to feel the night air on his face and listen to the sleepy whispers of his trees, eager to get underway with his investigation into the existence of that nightmarish beast. Closing the doors softly behind him, Thranduil stepped out onto his balcony. It was a moonless, cloudless night allowing the stars to shine brilliantly overhead. He inhaled deeply, appreciating the sweetness of the cool air filling his lungs, and hopped lightly up onto the balcony's railing. He stood there for long moments high above the forest floor, still as stone and oblivious to his unearthly appearance, surveying the dark sweep of trees and endless night sky with glowing green eyes. Something was missing, its absence causing his heart to sink. An expression of deep worry marked his face, a face still fair though marred by darkness.

"The trees are silent," he breathed. The symphony of night still played throughout the forest, the chirping of crickets, the calls of nocturnal animals, the rustling of leaves in the breeze, but all without the usual susurration of the trees. The Song of the Forest was incomplete. There was a heaviness to the night, a sense of foreboding. The trees were not speaking...they were _listening._ But to what? Thranduil was determined to find out. He eyed the nearest tree, gauging the distance, and with a smile of grim determination, he jumped.

 **Elsewhere…**

"Awaken. Arise." The call reverberated through the dark peace of slumber. "Find him." The urge to obey the whispered command was strong, but the pull of dreams was stronger. In dreams he could _feel_. In dreams his kindred surrounded him, bright points of light like stars sprinkled in a vast night sky, and he was not alone. They were tightly clustered in great number in some places, spread sparsely in others, and between their light existed only emptiness. He felt them _all_ and he knew they felt him; they were connected. He shared their joy in times of rain and warmth and growing, he shared their pain at the vicious bite of steel, their fear at the all consuming, burning hunger of flame, and he shared their sorrow at being unable to help as their kin were cruelly hewn down all around them. He felt keenly their frustration at their own impotence and in return he sent waves of reassurance that it would not always be so; they were strong and numerous, they were connected to the very foundations of Arda itself and therefore not as temporary as those who walked upon it. The dreams had shown him the truth - the world was theirs before the dominion of the Children of Ilúvatar and it would be theirs again.

 **A/N:** My apologies for the long wait for this chapter! The next will be up within a week or two. Thanks to all who have stuck with me, thank you to all who have read, reviewed, and favourited this story. A special thank you to **bluefireiceeyes,** **VanyaNoldo22** and **LOTRlover** for chosing to follow and **The Real Floranocturna** and **FramedCuriosity** for the lovely reviews of the last chapter.

I hope you've enjoyed the story so far..thanks for reading! :D

Until next time... **-L**.


	9. Awakened Pt 2

**The Vales of the Anduin**

" _Awaken. Arise."_

Throughout his lengthy years of slumber the golden voice had comforted him, whispering gentle commands he could not ignore. It had urged him to dig deep and spread roots, to forget and to dream, to feed and to grow, and now it urged him to arise, to seek and to find he knew not what. It had been long since he had stirred to any sort of awareness and he loathed the onslaught of sensation that came with it. Reluctant to awaken, he instead withdrew deeper into the comfortable darkness and spread his consciousness throughout the web of roots spanning the deep places of the earth, searching as the voice compelled him to rather than sleeping as he wished.

The distant motes of light defining his kindred in the far reaches of the west were peaceful and silent in their contentment, so he continued his hunt elsewhere. As he probed, he felt a sudden pull to the south. There a cluster of warm lights called to him, their familiar song drawing him in and singing of home. He yearned for those lights so suddenly and so fiercely it made him ache, but the voice whispered and dragged him from his southern longing, directing him to the northeast. There lay something more worthy of his attention. He sank further into the mesh of collective consciousness, seeking this unknown entity as the voice commanded, concentrating on the huge, dense cluster of brilliance that stretched far into the north.

As he passed into the southernmost part of the many star-like orbs, an icy, black presence brushed his mind and flared with a rage so intense it almost pushed him out of the connection, but he would not be turned away. The disembodied presence tried to ensnare him in its darkness, tugging powerfully at something deep within him and pitting its will against his own, but he was as strong as the foundations of Arda itself. He answered rage with rage and pushed past the feeble attempt to keep him from his goal.

The points of light grew brighter and more joyful the farther north he traveled until at last he found something of import: a small, silvery beacon shining brightly, so unlike the others that surrounded it. This beacon did not have roots that sank down into the earth as the others did. Instead its aura spread out like fine mist, laying atop and protectively covering the other lights around it, its soft glow entwining with theirs as if they belonged together. There his kin seemed to rejoice in that sheltering luminosity and did not heed his gentle call. This was not as it should be. All growing things heeded his call. Why then did these ignore it? Their disregard disturbed him beyond measure. It was obvious this beacon was the cause. Not only was it holding the icy presence at bay, but it also held his kin in thrall. The voice reverberated in his somnolent mind. This was where he needed to go, this was what he had been seeking.

He began to rouse himself then, withdrawing his wandering mind from the labyrinth of gossamer lights and refocusing his dulled senses on the world around him. He felt first the damp earth that held him in its embrace and he moved slightly to loosen its grip; he heard the rushing of a river and voices he did not recognise; he sensed the soothing, steady pulse of the forest nearby and could feel its quiet song. He lingered amidst these newfound sensations, savouring them, until the whispering voice again filled his mind with purpose and he had no choice but to obey.

A low, rumbling groan escaped his throat as he stirred. He shifted within the earth and the sharp sound of cracking resonated from underground as he broke free of the deep roots he had spread during his slumber. The voices he had heard grew louder and closer and his eyes blinked open in response. In the dark of night, his blurred vision showed him only muted, hazy colours and the gentle, swaying of something close to his face. It was hanging moss, he suspected, hanging moss moving in the breeze. He blinked and frowned, attempting to stand, but something was holding him in place. Vines. They had grown thick and strong, wrapping around his arms and legs and holding him firmly in place. He flexed his fingers in the soft soil and with a mighty cry pulled his hands free from the earth, sending dirt spraying upwards and snapping the broad, woody stalks of the vines. His body creaked as he stretched and straightened, and his blurry eyes took in his surroundings. He could hear the voices again, closer now and more aggressive than before, but his vision was not yet clear enough to see the source. He began to yank the vines from his body and toss them aside, ripping them first from his arms, then his torso, and finally his legs.

Suddenly, the trees nearby shrieked a mental warning and the image of the shimmering mesh of lights flared brilliantly behind his eyes. He felt the bite of cold steel on his leg and cried out in response, swatting at the pain, but it did not lessen. The scent of orc came to him, carried on the wind, and the singing of the trees grew angry. They called for vengeance and for blood. His eyes widened and his mouth gaped as memories came flooding back, flickering through his mind and drowning him in sorrow and rage, while the steel hacked into his flesh again and again. The voice whispered and his sorrow was forgotten as he gave himself fully to the rage. He struggled to pull his feet from their place within the earth but finally managed to break free. Stomping off, he roared his fury as he unleashed his wrath on the soft bodies of those who dared to attack him. Crushing and trampling, rending and tearing, he pounded the life out of every foul creature he could find in his near blindness, merciless even to those who fled in terror.

When silence reigned once more he calmed himself with deep, ragged breaths and looked up to the sky with bleary, watery eyes. His vision finally cleared and the stars swam into focus. The moonless, cloudless night allowed them to shine in all their glory, so similar to the brilliant points of light in the web of connectedness that lit his mind. The trees around him had gone quiet, their song now dreamy and restful. The voice whispered and set his feet into motion. He waded into the river, reveling in the rush of water around his legs and the feel of smooth, rounded stones beneath his feet. His steps slowed and his face softened into a slight smile as he admired the stars glinting in the water, their radiance crowning his ancient, craggy reflection in a ring of light. When he emerged on the opposite shore, much of the blood and gore from his encounter had been washed away and his heart felt lighter. The voice whispered once again, urging him toward the distant shadow of forest in the northeast and the silvery beacon hidden within.

He closed his eyes and concentrated, allowing the starlike lights of connectivity to illuminate his mind before pouring all of his will into the connection. He saw the beacon's delicate aura waver under his onslaught. Finally, he had the attention of his kin within its sheltering glow. Finally, they listened. He sang to them through the connection, reminding them of who they were and of the strength to be found within the earth. Satisfied that they would guide him to his objective, he let his long strides carry him towards the distant shadow on the horizon. And all the while the golden voice whispered, showing him visions of that brilliant beacon of light within his grasp, his fist closing around it and claiming it as his own.

Wind scented with the promise of rain stirred the branches of a tall, slender tree, casting shifting shadows over the pair of Elves concealed within its high branches. They sat silent and still, shrouded in cloaks as gray as the cloud covered sky, their pale blonde hair hidden beneath deep hoods. From their position in the woods on the western shore of the Vales, their keen eyes followed the movements of a large party of travellers near the Anduin. Men, women, and children trudged slowly southwards in a long, ragged line, some leading cattle and some carrying packs or baskets containing their meagre belongings. All who were strong enough, whether male or female, old or young, were armed with short swords or hand axes, sometimes both. Horse-drawn wooden carts were filled with supplies as well as those who were too young or too weak to walk a great distance. Here and there long spears with blackened iron tips pierced the sky, marking the position of warriors clad in leather and mail. They patrolled on horseback alongside the group, keeping watch over those on foot.

At the head of the group rode three tall men, their fair hair and cloaks of dark green whipping in the wind. Strapped to the side of each of their mounts was a round shield of darkened wood bearing an intricately carved, stylised rendering of a horse's head. The figures of the horses had perhaps once been painted brightly, but age and use had given the shields and their strange images a worn and battered appearance. The eldest of the three men rode in the centre atop a proud gray mare, his bearing marking him as the leader though he wore no symbol of authority. His white hair fell in unkempt waves over his shoulders and a thick beard covered most of his face. There was nothing relaxed in his straight-backed posture as he surveyed his surroundings. To his left rode a younger man similar in looks and bearing, while the man on his right appeared to be younger still with only a shadow of a beard upon his youthful face. The elder led his horse a short distance away and nearer to the treeline where the two Elves remained hidden. He stopped there out of the way of the main party to confer with his two companions. The three men spoke together in low tones, their horses drawn close. They remained alert, all the while watching the woods and their people, responding to the occasional greetings of passersby with a nod or a raised hand.

"Are these the _edain_ who passed through Thranduil's forest and settled in the Vales?" the younger Elf asked in barely a whisper. The spindly branch on which he was perched swayed in the strong breeze, but Gilorn hardly moved, remaining perfectly balanced as he crouched on the balls of his feet.

"I know not," Celegon answered just as softly. "I know only that the _edain_ who passed through Eryn Galen were refugees from a war in the far North." He observed the line of Men passing by with a slight frown upon his face, noting especially the swords, spears, and sharp axes, before focusing his attention on the three lingering below. "Perhaps these _are_ the Northmen. Their garb is strange and their language is unfamiliar. It is not Westron they speak, nor is it Adûnaic."

"Perhaps. But why then do they leave? Where are they going?" Celegon only shrugged in response and the silence between them stretched for several moments as they observed. "They have many fine horses," Gilorn finally remarked, wistfully admiring the great beasts as the group moved slowly past the pair of hidden Elves.

Celegon gave his brother a shrewd glance. "They do indeed possess fine horses, Gilorn, but we should be more concerned with the fine edges of those blades they carry in the direction of our homeland."

Gilorn's head snapped up. He was alarmed by the truth of his brother's words and perhaps moreso by the fact that it had not occurred to him. Celegon sat with deceptive casualness, his eyes on the three men below and his lips twitching into a smug smirk as he made a point of not looking at his brother. His back rested against the tapering trunk of the tree, one knee drawn up before him while his other leg dangled freely off the branch. Gilorn narrowed his eyes and grinned slyly. "We should make ourselves known then and discover their intentions." He rose smoothly and made a move as if to leave the tree, watching discreetly for his brother's reaction. It was as he hoped. Celegon straightened immediately and opened his mouth to protest, but his impending argument was interrupted before it could begin by the long, low call of a distant horn. The single, forlorn note cut through the quiet of the overcast afternoon and echoed across the Vales, soon followed by shouts of alarm and the crying of small children.

The Elves watched, certain that panic would spread among the large group of Men. Instead their reactions were coordinated movements, quick and smooth as if well rehearsed. At a nod from the elder on the ground below, the beardless youth accompanying him answered the distant call with his own horn. All three then spurred into action, shoving helms onto their heads and drawing swords, the apparent leader shouting orders as they rode off. The warriors on horseback all turned and charged with them to the north towards the party's rear guard, unseen in the distance. The men and women on foot quickly divided into smaller groups, herding children, elderly, and animals alike to the nearest cart, then drew their weapons and positioned themselves facing outwards in protective rings around the carts, the last line of defense between their vulnerable and whatever was coming. Within the centre of the smaller groups, a number of older children and aged men armed with bows and spears clambered atop the carts while the youngest hid beneath. All waited with grim calm for the imminent attack. With a quick glance to one another, the brothers dashed away to follow the horsemen, leaping from branch to branch, running as easily through the treetops as they would over ground.

The sounds of battle cries and clashing swords grew louder as they drew closer to the fighting, the smell of what lay ahead reaching them before the sight of it. " _Yrch_ ," Gilorn spat the word as if it were foul. He stopped in his tracks with a hand resting lightly on the rough bark of the tree that held him, and surveyed the skirmish far below. The disorganised and vicious orcs marginally outnumbered the men on horseback who were holding their own, despite being hemmed in between the trees to the west and the river to the east. Their horses were trained for battle and lashed out with hooves as their masters lashed out with swords and spears. Gilorn took his bow from his back and nocked an arrow, leaping without hesitation for a branch far below and slightly ahead, his cloak billowing about him as he fell. He landed silently in a low crouch. Swiftly drawing his bow, he took aim at a scrawny orc slinking stealthily up to a green cloaked young warrior on horseback who was busy fending off the attack of a massive, misshapen foe. He let the arrow fly just as the orc raised its crude sword and felt the slight dip in the branch as his brother landed beside him. With a sense of satisfaction he marked the look of relief on the young man's face when he finally spotted the orc that would have dealt him a killing blow, only to find an arrow now protruding from its eye. "I will take the left," Gilorn declared under his breath, quickly nocking another arrow and drawing his bow, the white feathered fletching brushing his cheek as he took aim.

"Aye," Celegon agreed, firing with precision at an orc in the far distance attempting to drag a warrior from his horse.

Following the agreed upon tactics to avoid wasting arrows on the same target, Gilorn's shots rained down with deadly accuracy upon the orcs on the left side of the battlefield while Celegon's brought swift death to those on the right. Several men who had been unhorsed looked around stunned as arrows pierced charging orcs who drew too near, but there was no time for them to reflect on their good fortune. When his arrows were spent, Gilorn slung his bow onto his back and drew his two long knives. He relished the smoothness of the pale _mallorn_ wood in his palms and let his thumbs rub nervous patterns over the well worn etchings in the hilts while he waited for his brother to ready himself. A rush of air near his right cheek fluttered his long hair and signalled the flight of Celegon's last arrow. His brother put away his bow and unsheathed his own two knives. Gilorn's gaze remained fixed on the fighting until he heard the whisper of the blades being drawn. He looked to Celegon then, at his side as always. Their eyes met for a moment, unspoken words passing between them. After so many centuries and so many battles fought they understood the unsaid. They leaned into each other, pressing shoulder to shoulder in a moment of calm and connection before leaping into the fray.

Overhead the veil of gloom parted briefly as the brothers rushed together into the skirmish, and for a moment sunlight glinted off their bright blades and golden hair as they moved together fluidly through the battlefield, slicing their way through the enemy as they had done countless times before. Their gray cloaks and long hair swirled around them as they fought with ferocious grace. The sight stirred something deep within the orcs who crossed their path, an ancient, instinctive fear that brought with it the undeniable urge to flee, but the Elves were merciless; none escaped their wrath. The brothers paid little heed to the men who looked on in surprise at the strangers in their midst, and continued their relentless slaughter of the enemy. When their numbers had dwindled dangerously low, the remaining orcs retreated into the forest closely pursued by men on foot. The wind picked up, carrying with it the sound of fighting from beneath the trees and the threat of an imminent downpour from the ever darkening clouds.

When the fighting stopped Celegon glanced around for Gilorn. He could not recall when they had gotten separated; one moment they were fighting near each other as always, and the next he was alone. He knelt and ripped a piece of cloth from the back of a dead orc, quickly and efficiently cleaning the black blood from his long knives and wiping the worst of the gore from his hands. He resheathed one of the pair and strode off through the battlefield in search of his younger brother, calling his name occasionally. Gilorn would be seeking him out as well, yet there was no answer to his calls.

Ignoring his rising worry, he used his blade to give a swift end to any downed orc still living and retrieved arrows from the dead as he walked. He looked for his brother as he wandered, but kept a careful eye on the fallen enemy; he knew all too well not to assume he was safe just because the enemy was lying on the ground. His searching eyes raked over the men milling about, ignoring the open gawking and curious looks he received, concerned only with locating Gilorn. "He should not be this difficult to find," he muttered to himself, rubbing absently at the itchiness of dried blood on his cheek. The brothers stood out easily among these men, not only for their height but also their slender build and pale, blonde hair. The men here were all tall, broad, and various shades of blonde, but none so tall or as fair as the two Elves. Celegon came to a halt and looked down at the dead, gaunt orc at his feet. One of Gilorn's white feathered arrows was lodged deep in its right eye. He pulled the arrow from the socket and with it came the eyeball, complete with the trailing bundle of nerves, arteries, and veins. With a grimace of disgust he wiped the remnants onto the orc's own clothing before turning to walk away, his brother's arrow gripped tightly in his hand.

He was stopped short by a young man blocking his path who stood with a look of open-mouthed awe upon his beardless face and a battered helm held loosely under one arm. Celegon raised an arrogant eyebrow, sliding the arrow into his quiver, and waited for the boy to move, but the youth remained where he was. With an irritated sigh Celegon stepped aside but was stopped by a leather gloved hand on his arm. The boy said something in his strange language while gesturing between the orc, Celegon, and himself.

Celegon shook his head. "I am sorry, but I do not understand what you are saying. Now, if you will excuse me, I am busy," he replied in Westron and attempted to brush past the boy.

The youth stepped in front of him with his hand raised and began speaking in a more urgent tone, pointing towards the river. The young man paused, waiting for a response, but received only a well practiced look of arrogant annoyance. He rolled his eyes and pointed to Celegon, gesturing to encompass the entirety of the Elf's person. He mimed himself having pointed ears and shooting a bow, and plucked up the edge of Celegon's gray cloak, shaking it slightly, and again pointed towards the river and gestured for Celegon to follow.

Celegon heaved an exasperated sigh, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back momentarily. "Do none of your people speak Westron?" He was met with a blank look and another gesture to follow. With a shake of his head, he relented. "Very well then, boy, lead on." He sheathed his knife before making a sweeping gesture with his arm.

The young man beamed and quickly walked away, turning occasionally to make sure Celegon still followed. As they headed off the heavens finally opened and a cold rain poured down, sending tendrils of mist creeping from the ground and into the air. The boy pulled the hood of his green cloak over his head and wrapped himself tightly within, while the Elf tilted his face to the sky and let the cleansing rain wash the blood and grime of battle from his skin as he walked. The twisted and trampled bodies of orcs lessened in number while the mist grew thicker the closer they drew to the Anduin. A sinking feeling settled in his stomach and his steps slowed when Celegon realised that the dead and wounded men were laid out at the river's edge. Cold dread filled him as he came upon warriors comforting each other in their grief, some crying unashamedly in the arms of their comrades; some huddled over in the mist, clinging to unmoving bodies; some applying field dressings to the wounded. He did not realise he had stopped walking until he felt the young man tug at his arm. Celegon dragged his gaze from the dead and despondent to see the boy's brown eyes regarding him with concern.

A sudden memory overcame the Elf and his heart clenched within his chest. He remembered the fallen Ent Bregalad, Quickbeam _hîr_ Fangorn had called him, who had met his demise all alone not far from here. He remembered the feeling of fear that had swallowed him when he had imagined it had been his brother fighting alone, dragged down in a sea of orcs, just like poor Bregalad. Celegon felt the blood drain from his face and seemingly settle like a lead weight in his stomach. "Where is my brother?" the words left his lips in a ragged whisper, unheard by the boy over the pouring rain and rushing river.

The young man pointed to a small group crouched around a prone body veiled in mist. They appeared to be working frantically to save the life lying at their feet. A man on his knees was using his cloak to shield the face of the fallen from the rain, speaking calmly and steadily in that unknown language. Most of the body was shrouded by mist or hidden by the three men surrounding it, but Celegon caught a glimpse of an outstretched arm and a pale hand lying palm up in the mud, fingers slack and still and stained with smears of bright red. He could tell even from this distance that there was too much blood soaking the earth around the body. Feeling rather numb and with his heartbeat thudding in his ears, Celegon began to walk slowly towards the hooded men, afraid of what he would find. His boots sank into the soft earth as he approached and he wished nothing more than to sink into it himself.

 **TBC...**

 **Thank you all for reading and leaving reviews, as well as favouriting and following this story. I hope you're enjoying it so far! You are all very much appreciated. - L. 3**

 _ **Edain - men**_

 ** _Yrch- orcs_**


	10. Brotherhood

**A/N at the end of story...**

 **Vales of the Anduin**

Fear was an emotion unfamiliar to Celegon, seeming only to afflict him where his younger brother was concerned. As he reluctantly approached the group of hooded men kneeling by the Anduin he felt the effects of it coursing through his veins like the river's icy water. He glanced behind him to the beardless youth, but the boy had turned his back and was speaking to another man. Celegon swallowed the lump forming in his throat and continued his lonely walk through the steady rain.

One of the kneeling men facing his direction looked up as he drew nearer and slowly stood, glancing between the prone form and the approaching Elf. The mist swirled around the cloaked figure's legs as he stepped around those on the ground and strode forth, throwing back his hood to reveal a shock of silvery hair and a familiar face.

"Celegon!" His brother's voice reached his ears but did not register in Celegon's anxious mind. Gilorn hurried over to greet him, relief curving his lips and lighting his eyes. The smile quickly faded, however, when he saw his brother's pale face and strange expression. "What is wrong? Are you injured?" With bloodstained hands Gilorn methodically checked for signs of damage until Celegon grabbed his wrists to stop him. He stilled and met his older brother's wide eyes, realising only then that it was fear he saw within them.

"I could not find you. I thought…" Celegon's softly spoken words wavered, nearly drowned out by the steady rush of rain, and his grip on his brother tightened painfully.

Gilorn watched in surprise as the shadow of sadness passed over Celegon's face, erasing all traces of the arrogant self-assurance so often present and leaving in its stead a look of vulnerability and tears that slowly joined the rivulets of rain running down his cheeks. Alarmed, Gilorn drew his brother into his arms and held him tightly. He felt himself embraced in return, his brother's body shuddering as he clung to him, but was at a loss as to how to comfort one who rarely showed such weakness. He closed his eyes and squeezed tighter, murmuring words of comfort into his brother's rain soaked hair. Eventually the shuddering stopped but neither was willing to let go.

"I was afraid you were lost." Celegon's sorrowful voice was muffled by the embrace.

"I am here. I am well." The simple reassurance was all Gilorn could think to offer.

Heaving a tremulous sigh, Celegon finally pulled away. "I cannot tell you how relieved I am to see you." He clutched his brother's shoulders and his face softened into the beginnings of a smile before morphing into a frown. "Do not _ever_ worry me like that again," he demanded. Gilorn grinned like an elfling, unknowingly easing his brother's heart. Celegon gave him a shake. "Why did you leave my side? Where did you go? Is this your blood? Are you hurt?" His questions came rapidly with no chance for reply as he in turn looked his brother over, lifting aside the sodden gray cloak to search for any wound.

Gilorn batted his hands away. "I am unharmed, I assure you." He chuckled lowly at his brother's worriment and gestured to the prone form behind him, the humour falling from his face as he looked on. "He thought he was saving me. The foolish child." The last sentiment was muttered under his breath with a shake of his head. "There were three _yrch_ attacking at once, two in front of me, one behind. I believe he thought I did not see the one behind, or perhaps that I was incapable of defending myself from it. He threw himself between us just as I turned from disposing of the other two. I could not abandon him after he was struck down; he was alone and afraid." Gilorn paused, looking at his red stained hands, distress evident in his voice. "He will not survive. His abdomen is split wide. I have done all I can to help...sang the healing words and stitched him up until the thread ran out. They do not have enough to close such a large wound and I used all I carried with me. Even if they did have enough, the internal damage is too great." He squeezed his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms. "He is young, Celegon, even for _edain_." Gilorn fell silent and the two looked on helplessly as the boy's end neared.

Celegon felt a vague sadness while observing the men's futile efforts, but the sadness was overshadowed by the immense relief he felt that it was not _his_ loved one lying there in the pouring rain, bleeding his life out into the mud. "But it could have been," he muttered to himself.

"It could have been what?" Gilorn queried, searching his brother's face for a hint of an answer.

"It could have been you." The words hung there between them. Celegon felt his younger brother's hand wrap around his own in a firm grip. He squeezed that warm hand while his eyes were fixed on the one lying so pale against the mud and grass.

"It could have been either of us." Gilorn withdrew his hand and instead draped his arm around his brother's shoulders. "But it was not. Not this time."

More weary men had wandered over and stood a respectful distance away, waiting for the inevitable. The mist swirled around them, obscuring then revealing, and the rain finally slackened to a drizzle. The words of the man kneeling at the boy's head could be heard by all now, not just the sensitive ears of the Elves. His voice was hoarse and full of emotion as he spoke and stroked the boy's forehead. The two men who had been acting as healers ceased their movements, their hands stilling as realisation set in. One stood abruptly and stalked away to the river, striding shin deep into the water before falling to his knees while the other simply hung his head in defeat. A bystander walked over to the man who was still speaking and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. The litany of words finally stuttered to a halt, along with the rain, and silence descended.

"He was the youngest we lost this day," a deep voice quietly remarked in slow, heavily accented Westron. The brothers separated abruptly and turned to find the leader of the men standing behind them, his thickly muscled arms folded across his wide chest. A dark green hood covered his white hair and droplets of rain decorated his graying beard. "Five and ten years he was. Too young, I said. His father said no, he was strong, he was ready. Stubborn. Wouldn't listen. Now look," he tilted his head in the direction of the heartrending tableau. "His father there, wishing he'd listened." Anguished cries rose then from the river's edge, drawing their attention back to the grieving man and his fallen son.

Gilorn stepped toward the leader. "I feel I may be to blame." He confessed his guilt under the scrutiny of the stoic man's dark brown eyes and felt his brother's reassuring presence move closer behind him. He did not need to look to know that Celegon's hands rested on the hilts of his blades. "I did not realise the boy would try to intervene. If I had been quicker perhaps...but I was too late. I should have done more..."

The man interrupted Gilorn with a shake of his head and a raised hand. He was an imposing figure in his battle stained leather and mail, standing nearly as tall as the Elves but much broader. He shrewdly surveyed them from top to bottom, lingering on Gilorn's reddened hands, and left them both feeling as if they had been thoroughly assessed and judged accordingly. "You speak too quickly. This Westron comes slower to me, but I understand enough." His eyes narrowed in his weathered face, looking over the Elves once more. "Your words sound...strange. Like that Mirkwood King. But you are not his people, are you? The same, yet different." The brothers shared a dubious glance when he paused for a moment, lost in thought. He dropped a large hand on Gilorn's slender shoulder and gave him a few heavy pats. "No matter. You did what you could. The blame is not yours, young one. Death comes to us all, and more would be dead without you." The man began to walk away, but turned back to the Elves and lowered his hood, glancing up to the gray sky. "I am Marhwini, son of Marhari. I would speak more with you later and thank you…" he hesitated, seeming to search for a word. "Properly. I would thank you properly. But first I must speak with Gerolt there, and the others. Until later." He gave the brothers a nod, and strode away to meet with the bereaved and the wounded.

"Mirkwood? Is that what they call _Eryn Galen_?" Celegon watched the man intently and shook his head. "Thranduil will not like that."

"Young one?" Gilorn muttered incredulously, earning an amused glance from his brother.

"Come, _young one_ ," Celegon clapped his brother on the back. "Let us gather the rest of our arrows and be gone from this place. We have done enough here. The Lady has entrusted us with this mission and we must not fail her." He began to walk quickly back towards the battlefield. Gilorn gave a long look to the father hugging the limp body of his son before rushing to catch up to his brother.

"This Marhwini wishes to speak with us, Celegon. We should at least wait and hear him out."

Celegon glanced to his brother without slowing his pace. "I do not care to hear him out. We have urgent business elsewhere and we must make it in time. The Lady said events are already in motion; we cannot delay."

"Delaying to have a conversation will not alter the time of our arrival. Besides, were you not curious as to why such a group were travelling towards our homeland?" Gilorn bent to snatch a gray fletched arrow from the mangled corpse of an orc and held it out for his brother to take.

Celegon stopped abruptly and accepted his arrow, using it for emphasis as he spoke. "My curiosity has been sated. Our wardens will have no difficulty in dealing with these _edain_ should they decide to venture too close to Lórien. And it will not be _just_ a conversation, mark my words. We should leave now. It will be easier." He slid the arrow into his quiver and started off again. "You take that side. Meet me back here when you are done."

"Wait." Gilorn took hold of his brother's arm to keep him from hurrying off. "What do you mean 'not _just_ a conversation'?"

Celegon released an exasperated sigh. "I mean these are _edain._ They are predictable. We will be invited to share a meal. You will not refuse because you are also predictable and far too polite. There will be drinking as they remember their dead. That will lead to singing, which will lead to more drinking, which will lead to still more singing and probably dancing. We will be here all night."

"I am not predictable! And I am not too polite! One cannot be ' _too polite_ '. Perhaps you are not polite enough!" Gilorn poked his brother in the chest with a finger, bringing a smirk to Celegon's lips. He frowned and crossed his arms, realising he had risen to the bait as Celegon had intended, and decided not to respond further, but to continue in a civil manner. "Perhaps this _adan_ simply wants to thank us properly, as he said. Besides, it would not hurt to resupply if we are able. I do not relish the thought of making this journey on lembas alone." He looked pointedly at his brother, wordlessly reminding him of the loss of their trail rations, and giving his best impression of Celegon's raised eyebrow.

"That was not entirely my fault! If you had not insisted on sticking your nose where it did not belong…" This time it was Gilorn's turn to smirk. Celegon huffed a disbelieving snort and shook his head. He pointed at his brother, opening his mouth to retort, before thinking better of it and snapping it shut again.

"Even if we did camp here tonight instead of a few leagues to the north, do you truly think it would make that much difference in the scheme of things?"

Celegon shrugged a shoulder. "I do not know the scheme of things, but the Lady seems to and she requested utmost urgency. We do not have time to indulge your fascination with whatever this _adan_ has to say. We risked our lives... _your_ life! That is enough! We owe them nothing more."

Although unintended, the increasing volume and sharp words stung, and Gilorn to hung his head, studying his bloodied hands. Celegon knew his brother thought of the young life he could not save and watched with regret as he lifted his head defiantly and stalked away.

"Gilorn, wait," he called. His brother stopped, but did not turn. Celegon jogged to where he stood and came round to face him. Gilorn had arranged his face into a carefully expressionless expression, just as he had always done when trying to conceal his feelings from his older brother. Celegon found it endearing and had not the heart to tell him that he failed miserably every time. He pulled him into his arms and hugged him close, holding tightly until Gilorn relented and returned the embrace with a resigned sigh. "I am sorry. Please do not be angry with me." Celegon took a deep, shaky breath and closed his eyes. "I was afraid, Gilorn. I was afraid it was you lying there by the river. I was afraid and I do not wish to stay here and be reminded of it." He released his brother and looked at him earnestly. "Please forgive me. What would I have if I did not have you?" With tears stinging his eyes, Celegon strode away to retrieve arrows, leaving his brother watching after him with a look of astonishment on his face.

Gilorn shook his head. This day had not turned out the way he expected when they broke camp at dawn. He began to weave his way through the battlefield with a thoughtful frown creasing his brow, plucking the occasional arrow as he wandered. Men were busy with the onerous task of dragging enemy corpses into mounds to be set alight, and few spared him even a glance as he glided by. When he had collected all the arrows that could be found he headed back toward the designated meeting spot, passing near a pair of men who were hauling a rather large orc to the nearest pile. He heard a shout and paused mid stride, glancing in their direction. The younger of the pair dropped the legs he was carrying in order to beckon Gilorn over, resulting in much grumbling from his burly companion who was left struggling with the other end. The Elf cocked his head and looked around him, making sure it was indeed he who was being beckoned, and ambled over, his curiosity piqued.

The orc landed heavily on the heap as Gilorn approached and the young man smiled widely in greeting. He spoke to Gilorn in his strange language, made a motion for him to stay put, then dashed off to a horse waiting patiently nearby. A dark green cloak was draped over the saddle and a shield rested on the ground at the horse's feet. A pleased smile began to curve his lips when Gilorn recognised the youth, faltering slightly when his thoughts strayed to the fallen boy by the river, only a few years younger than this one by the looks of him. The young man retrieved a cloth wrapped bundle from atop the shield and trotted back. He unwrapped it and presented it to Gilorn, speaking again and looking expectantly to the Elf. The bundle held five arrows, four with gray fletching belonging to Celegon and one of his own bearing the white feathers of the swans that made the waters of Lothlórien their home. A question came from the boy, drawing Gilorn from his sudden, wistful longing to see those swans gliding serenely over clear waters once more.

"He ask which is yours," the burly man said offhandedly, tossing bits of orc armour and weapons upon the pile without looking up. His Westron was more strongly accented than Marhwini's and it took a moment for Gilorn to realise that he had actually understood what had been said.

The Elf picked his arrow from the bunch, holding it up to the boy with a crooked grin and smoothing the white feathers before popping it into his quiver. The young man flashed him a smile full of straight white teeth and Gilorn accepted the other arrows, sliding them in with the rest. "Thank you," he replied in Westron for the benefit of the burly man, and inclined his head in thanks with a hand placed over his heart. The burly man translated his gratitude for the youngster.

"Ah," the youth shook his head, the bright smile still lingering. "Thank you." He haltingly repeated Gilorn's words and imitated his gesture. A look tinged with uncertainty and fear flickered across his face, perhaps remembering how close he had come to death, and he clasped Gilorn's forearm in a firm grip. "Thank you," he said again more seriously.

Gilorn placed his own hand atop the young man's. "You are most welcome. Do not waste your second chance." The boy looked questioningly to the other man who was now sprinkling a flammable oil onto the mound of orcs. The man shook his head, mumbling something unintelligible to the Elf's ears and knelt to strike a spark that would set the corpses ablaze. When the boy looked back to him, a question still in his eyes, Gilorn gave a short bow and took his leave. His brother was waiting.

Gilorn had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that Celegon had been right. His brother had far more dealings with the race of Men than he ever had himself, and everything had come to pass exactly as he had said. Marhwini did indeed invite them back to the main group to share a meal and honour the dead, even offering them the use of a pair of horses to make the short trip easier, and as predicted Gilorn was unable to refuse when faced with the heartfelt offer. He glanced to his brother before agreeing, but Celegon merely arched an imperious brow and kept silent, though the hint of a smirk did twitch at his lips.

"Do not say a word," Gilorn muttered as they walked through the mud to their waiting mounts.

"I did not intend to." With a curt nod Celegon accepted the reins from the grim faced warrior who held them and swung himself gracefully into the saddle. He took his time meticulously arranging his cloak and his weapons before looking down at his younger brother. "Not yet anyway." Celegon attempted to maintain his arrogant demeanour, but Gilorn could hear the laughter as his brother rode off to join the departing men.

Gilorn sighed, mentally preparing himself for the sardonic gibes that were sure to come as the night wore on. He patted his borrowed mare on the shoulder and stroked her muzzle, admiring her shiny chestnut coat and brilliant white markings, all the while murmuring his greetings in the ancient language of the Silvan Elves. The horse whickered in pleasure, nuzzling into his neck and puffing warm breaths into his long hair. He chuckled softly and took the reins offered by the warrior who was now decidedly less grim and watching him with undisguised curiosity. Gilorn nodded his thanks and hopped nimbly into the saddle. The eager mare danced sideways and with little urging took off after the rest of the riders.

The return of the warriors in the late afternoon had been met with joyous shouts as families were reunited, soon followed by keening wails as women were greeted with the bodies of their men. Shrouded once more in their gray cloaks the Elves dismounted and stood apart from the Men, silently observing. Gilorn watched pensively as Gerolt, the father of the fallen boy, slowly approached on his black steed with the body of his son cradled in his arms; Celegon watched only his brother's face and his heart ached at the guilt he saw there. He stepped closer to offer what solace he could, pressing shoulder to shoulder, and felt Gilorn lean into him.

Together they watched the man carefully dismount, refusing all assistance, and carry the limp body to a woman waiting nearby in shocked disbelief. Gerolt knelt before her, gently laying his lifeless son at her feet. With a sorrowful wail she collapsed to her knees and gathered the boy in her arms, sobbing and stroking his pallid cheek and messy golden hair still damp from the rain.

"His mother," Gilorn murmured. With a sharp pang he remembered his own mother and her grief at the loss of his father and eldest brother, though she had no bodies to give a final embrace. So great was her sorrow that it had driven her to leave her remaining sons behind in favour of the white shores of the Undying Lands.

"Come." Celegon slipped his arm around his brother's waist and attempted to lead him away, but Gilorn shook his head in refusal, his eyes fixed on the weeping woman in the faded blue dress.

Inconsolable in her grief, she sat there clinging to her silent child, rocking him and singing softly until others came to collect his body for the funeral pyre. She refused to let him go, forcing Gerolt to pull her away and hold her tightly as their son was taken to join the fallen. The man stood firm as she struggled against him, crying and pleading, her empty arms finally wrapping around him in desperation.

When darkness fell at last the echoes of joy had long since faded, leaving only the pall of grief. Around the massive pyre words were spoken in honour of the fallen, drink was passed around, toasts were made, and songs of glory were sung. The somber atmosphere gradually lightened, however, as the night wore on. The mead flowed and the sparks of the funeral pyre carried the spirits of the dead to the halls of their fathers. Gilorn stood in the shadows away from the fire watching all with a frown on his face and his brother at his side. He could not quite comprehend how a funeral could turn into a celebration, but these Men had somehow managed it.

"Why do they dance as their loved ones burn? Do they not grieve?"

Celegon watched the shifting shadows play across his brother's face before turning his attention back to the pyre. "Of course they grieve. But death is no stranger to _edain_ , perhaps less so to these in particular. I have a feeling they have seen much of it recently."

Someone had brought out a drum and began to set a quick rhythm for a lively jig, the primal beats soon joined by the lilting strains of a flute. "I do not understand. If you were lost to me I could find no joy in singing and dancing so soon after your death. Perhaps never again." Gilorn turned his back on the strange funeral and gazed instead into the darkness, his sharp eyes easily picking out the warriors patrolling the perimeters of the encampment.

"They are _edain_ , Gilorn. They are like the flames and we are like the stars. Their lives flare so brightly and burn so quickly before disappearing forever into the ashes of darkness, but their warmth still lingers after they are gone. And yet we remain, steady and eternal, ever vigilant in the veil of night. It is no wonder they choose to celebrate when nothing but death awaits them." Celegon leaned over to speak lowly in his brother's ear. "If they choose to celebrate a life lived instead of mourning a life lost, who are you to question it?"

Gilorn looked up to the stars peeking out between dark wisps of cloud, his brows furrowed in deep thought. "You are right," he said softly. "You are right."

The two Elves eventually drifted away from the gathering and towards one of the many campfires that lit the night. They sat quietly side by side cleaning and repairing their arrows while they awaited the promised conversation with Marhwini. Gilorn's mood steadily improved as he relaxed into the familiar task after accepting the truth in his brother's earlier words. Celegon had always been able to draw Gilorn back to himself when he wandered too far into his own melancholy. He decided to ensure that his younger brother did not stray into its gray shadows again tonight; he would see him smile and hear him laugh before the night was through.

 **TBC...**

 **I hope you're enjoying the story so far, and thank you all for reading, following, and favouriting. Thanks very much to XiomaraLaura for the recent follow / favourite and The Realfloranocturna for her lovely reviews (If you haven't already, you should really check out her fantastic Thranduil romance The Secret of the Forest...it's worth the read ;D). I appreciate each and every one of you ^_^**

 **Until next time... -L.**

 _Yrch - orcs_

 _Edain / adan - men / man_


	11. Ashes and Embers

**A/N:** Please note sentences written in _italics_ later in the story indicate the speaker's native language e.g. Sindarin for the Elves, early Rohirric for the Men. I apologise for the long wait for this update, so here's an extra long chapter. I hope you enjoy it, **thrndlwood :D**

 **Vales of the Anduin**

Marhwini stood amongst his people as they celebrated the lives lost earlier in the day, his attention focused on Gerolt's wife Eda. She sat away from the main mass of revelers, staring into the pyre that had held her son's remains, with a cup of mead grasped loosely in her hand and a slightly dazed expression on her face. Gerolt stood behind her with his hands resting firmly on her slumped shoulders, as if the weight of those hands were the only things anchoring her broken spirit inside her earthly body. Marhwini was not unaffected by the couple's grief; his own son's fate was still unknown and his two grandsons looked to him for strength and guidance in the absence of their father.

As leader, Marhwini felt keenly every loss of life today, felt a small bit of blame for each fallen man, but he swallowed it down. He would not show any such weakness. To do so in front of these people who had lost so much, so many, was unthinkable. They chose to follow him not only because the line of his fathers was once a line of kings, but because they perceived him to be strong, to be without fear or uncertainty in the face of adversity and danger, but adversity and danger were all these people had faced since they had fled the ravages of war and pestilence in the far North. They had trusted him to lead them to a safe haven. Instead he had led them deeper into danger. At least the danger in the North had been clear - Men from the East waging their unending wars in an effort to grab land and resources, and the withering sickness they had brought with them. There was no safe haven to be found here in the Vales, only more death and an unnamed evil lurking in the shadows, tainting the very earth, and twisted, foul creatures that poured forth from the dense forest and crept from their holes in the high mountains. He had no choice but to lead those who were left farther south, searching for a safer land to settle.

Marhwini closed his eyes briefly and turned away from the grieving couple, shoving down the regret, the blame, the nagging fear and worry. He exhaled slowly until these unwelcome feelings were silenced and stowed away once more. Opening his eyes again, he saw his eldest grandson standing before him with a bemused smirk on his face and a flagon of mead in each hand. He took the offered drink with a nod of thanks, ignoring the question in the younger man's eyes, and drained its contents in one long gulp. He wiped the dripping mead from his beard with his sleeve and shifted his attention to the two strange Elves sitting side by side at one of the more distant campfires.

"What do you make of them, Frumgar?" He nodded towards the pair who were speaking quietly together.

Frumgar took a slow drink while he studied the Elves. "I think they are...dangerous, but perhaps not to us. I've never seen their like in battle. Even the orcs fear them, though you wouldn't think it to look at them. I certainly wouldn't wish to have them as enemies, but I don't trust them or understand their purpose here."

Marhwini grunted in agreement. "No, nor do I." He hailed a passing woman carrying a tray full of mugs and traded his empty flagon for two more. He downed one swiftly, his eyes still fixed on the two Elves, and replaced it heavily on the tray, sloshing golden liquid over the rims of the other mugs. Under the watchful glare of the displeased young woman whose tray was now dripping mead onto her dress, Frumgar gently placed his empty flagon down and took another for himself, thanking her with a small apologetic smile and a raised mug. She shook her head and rolled her eyes, immune to his handsome face and charming grin, and left the two men with a cutting glance.

Marhwini ignored the woman and continued watching the strangers thoughtfully. His people had not had dealings with Elves since the ancient days, and he had always assumed the grand tales heard in his youth concerning their race had been greatly exaggerated. After meeting the Elves of Mirkwood a few years before and now this pair, he was not so sure that they were.

Despite the fact that they had come to the aid of his warriors, these two seemed to have no desire to mingle with his people. They had remained apart from them throughout the course of the afternoon and into the evening, not participating in either the funeral or the celebration, their aloof manner raising suspicion among those who had not seen them in battle. Instead the pair had stood side by side on the fringe of activity, detached and indifferent, speaking only to each other and watching all with their too-bright blue eyes and displaying very little emotion on their too-perfect faces. Marhwini prided himself on being an excellent judge of the character of Men, but these were not Men and as much as he hated to admit it, he found Elves altogether unnerving.

"The maids all seem to appreciate them, hovering about the pair of them like flies around horse dung," the younger man complained into his drink, pulling Marhwini from his thoughts.

"Oh, aye, that they do!" He chuckled at the poorly hidden jealousy on his grandson's face. "Find yourself a wife and you won't have to worry about such things. Even your brother is wedded, and he's ten years younger!"

Frumgar huffed his disagreement, his eyes searching the clusters of unattached young women standing near the Elves. They all lingered in the shadows of the campfires, whispering amongst themselves and indiscreetly eyeing up the newcomers. He was looking for one maid in particular, and was relieved not to find her among the giggling groups who seemed to be taking it in turns to casually saunter over and offer the two strangers morsels of food or cups of mead. Food and drink were not the only things on offer, he guessed, judging by the looks cast in the Elves' direction. To their credit, the Elves did seem uncomfortable with the attention, but it did nothing to lessen Frumgar's annoyance. "Plenty of time for wives," he muttered, gulping down the last of his mead.

"Is there?" Marhwini looked to his grandson, noticing the small smile that curled his lips when his eyes finally alighted on the one he had been seeking. "Tomorrow is not guaranteed, my boy." He gripped Frumgar's shoulder with a calloused hand and met with a sad smile the deep brown eyes that turned to him in question. "Besides," his smile grew brighter and mischief lit his eyes as he elbowed his grandson none too gently in the ribs, "you're nearing your thirtieth year, and that little filly won't wait forever." Frumgar grunted in pain and looked aghast at his grandfather. "Now go," he ordered with a heavy slap on the back, "find your little brother. We need to speak with these...guests."

"If you truly wish to help, then say nothing. Her father hates me." The frowning young man rubbed his aching ribs and stalked off to do as he was bid.

"He doesn't hate you," Marhwini called after him. "He just deems you unworthy of his daughter. There's a difference!" He grinned in satisfaction, seeing the rude gesture his grandson waved in his direction.

The grin faded and his bushy gray brows drew together as he slowly sipped the remnants of his drink and observed the strangers while he waited for his grandsons. As a boy he had listened wide eyed and enraptured as the storytellers wove their tales of the great deeds of the Eldar, filling his childish mind with images of their lethal skill in battle, their strange magic and hidden cities, their ancient wisdom and immortality. He snorted into his mug. Immortality. Ridiculous notion. _Or was it_? These Elves did look young, especially the one who had attempted to save the life of young Edgard, but their eyes...their eyes told a different story. Marhwini shuddered and his frown deepened as he thought of his brief time in Mirkwood and remembered another pair of cold, fathomless Elven eyes. He tried to bring to mind any elderly Elves he might have seen there, but he could recall none. The Elvenking himself appeared ageless and fair, as did the warriors who had marched him through the dark wood and the Counsellors who had haughtily watched him plead his case, alone, before their king.

He downed the last dregs and signalled for his mug to be taken away. One of the Elves chose that moment to turn his head in the old man's direction, icy blue eyes meeting his own for a long moment, and he could not help the relief he felt when the Elf finally turned his steely gaze back to his companion. "Definitely unnerving," he muttered to himself.

"What are you grumbling about now?" Marhwini barely contained his jump of surprise at his grandson's return. He had not heard him approach, being so engrossed in contemplation. Frumgar did not wait for a reply. "I found Fram. He'll be with us shortly."

"Well, we haven't got all night. The hour grows late and we've an early start. What's he doing that's so important he can't come when I summon him?"

Frumgar cleared his throat and shifted his feet uncomfortably. "He was, ah, with Metta when I found him. They were...they had taken a walk and needed a moment to...finish."

"Finish? Finish wha...oh." Marhwini shook his head. "You'd think they were still newlyweds. I certainly hope they didn't go far from camp. It's not safe."

Frumgar snorted. "They didn't go far enough if you ask me."

The old man chose not to reply. He was beginning to regret his decision to calm his nerves with alcohol. It required much concentration for him to speak Westron, and he hoped he could manage it without sounding like an ignorant fool in front of these strangers. At least Frumgar would be with him. The lad knew the language passably well after learning it from his mother, but with her untimely passing his younger grandson had not been afforded the same opportunity. Fram would be useless in this discussion, but he still wished to have them both with him in their father's stead. "Fram can join us later. I've put this off long enough." He eyed the Elves with determination and straightened his shoulders, ignoring the effects of the mead he had imbibed perhaps too quickly. "Come. Let's get this over with," he sighed, and with a confidence he did not entirely feel, strode off towards the campfire where the two Elves waited.

As the sporadic conversation with his brother lulled, Celegon felt he was being watched and this time not by the women lingering nearby. He eventually turned to find Marhwini's eyes upon him, the man's gray brows drawn together and a look of unease clear upon his rugged face. He took his time studying the old man as he was studied in return, neither breaking eye contact until he finally decided to return his attention to the twin knives resting across his lap. He had finished repairing his arrows and had moved on to giving his long knives a thorough clean, paying close attention to removing the gore from the engravings on the grips and the blades. Satisfied with their cleanliness, he rummaged around in one of his pouches until he found a small bottle of oil. Pouring some onto a well-used cloth, he began the familiar, relaxing motions of polishing his prized knives and spoke quietly to his brother.

"The _adan_ watches us with mistrust, and he is not the only one. We should not have stayed." Gilorn did not answer.

He paused and glanced in his brother's direction, finding him lost in thought with his gaze fixed on the campfire's embers and his long fingers absently smoothing the white fletching of the arrow he held in his hands. "Gilorn?" Still no reply. Celegon sighed. He had been largely unsuccessful in his attempts to rouse his younger brother from his melancholy, receiving only half hearted retorts in response to his gibes and flustered denials when he had pointed out the attention they were receiving from the females in the camp. "Gilorn," he repeated, nudging his brother's knee with the toe of his boot and finally gaining his attention.

The younger Elf roused himself from his abstraction and gently tapped the point of the arrow against his chin, but his thoughts were still far away and his eyes were still fixed on the fire. "Do you think Amroth and Nimrodel have sailed yet? They should have reached Edhellond by now."

The question took Celegon by surprise. "What? This is what you have been thinking about? Did you not hear what I said?"

Gilorn's gaze slowly travelled to meet his brother's. "So much has changed. Perhaps we should have sailed with them." Uncertainty plagued him, and he found himself longing for something he could not name.

Celegon sighed. "Yes, much has changed, but the world itself is ever changing, is it not? Amroth may have left these shores with his beloved, and our allegiance now lies with a Lord and his Lady instead of a king, but some things do not change. The golden wood has not changed. Our duty has taken us farther afield, but it has not changed. You and I together...that has not changed." He smiled encouragingly to his brother and reached over to give his knee a reassuring squeeze. "We have been tasked with a mission of great importance. The Lady said it _must_ be us, that it could be no one else. It is a great honour to be chosen, Gilorn. Why do you doubt now when you were so eager before?"

Gilorn frowned and turned his head to answer, but caught a glimpse of Marhwini striding towards them with another green-cloaked man. He watched the two men for a moment before sliding his arrow into the quiver lying at his side. "The Lady also said to travel north, not the safer route to the south, and look where it has gotten us. Caught up in a battle that was not ours and a young life lost attempting to save my own." He rose gracefully to his feet and turned towards the approaching men, patiently awaiting their arrival with his hands clasped behind his back.

Celegon cocked a brow at his brother, disturbed by his words but not disagreeing with them, and greatly desiring to understand what lay at the heart of the matter. He went back to carefully polishing his blade as the men neared, unwilling to continue the conversation in front of strangers or show just how much his brother's strange mood had disturbed him.

"Greetings, my friends. We meet again," Marhwini spoke slowly, deliberately, his deep voice and heavy accent cutting through the tension left by Gilorn's words. "This is Frumgar, son of Forthwine, my eldest grandson." Gilorn gripped Marhwini's offered hand as he was expected to, and did the same to the hand offered by the younger man. "My youngest will…" the old man was interrupted by the breathless arrival of a familiar face as Fram jogged up to join them.

" _Forgive me, grandfather, I came as soon as I was free. I was with Metta and she..."_ Fram began.

Frumgar held up his hands with a shake of his head. " _We know well what you were doing, Fram. Just leave it."_

The younger man gave his brother a mischievous grin which broadened when he recognised the Elf standing before him. " _Hello again."_

Marhwini cleared his throat and motioned towards the new arrival. "This is Fram, my youngest grandson."

"We have met." Gilorn smiled, being sure to speak slightly slower and more clearly than he normally did, and extended his hand to the youth who gripped it enthusiastically.

" _He saved my life,_ " Fram explained to his grandfather and brother, who shared a surprised glance.

" _Did he now?"_ Marhwini asked, eyeing the Elf with more interest. Gilorn stood with his head cocked to the side, listening to the unfamiliar cadence of the men's strange language. "My grandson says you saved his life."

"That I did," Gilorn confirmed with a dip of his head.

"Then it appears I am even more indebted to you…" the old man paused, waiting expectantly for the Elf's name.

"Oh! Forgive me. I am Gilorn Angolion," he said with a slight bow. "This is my brother Celegon Angolion, Captain of Lothlórien's Marchwardens." He gestured toward his brother who stood slowly and sheathed his perfectly polished blades with great care, offering the men a regal nod and taking position at Gilorn's side.

"There is no debt between us, Marhwini son of Marhari," he continued. "We thank you for your hospitality and wish to extend our sincere condolences for the loss of your men today."

Silence followed, broken only by Frumgar murmuring a translation of Gilorn's words to Fram. The youth's eyes widened and flashed with something akin to excitement as he looked from one Elf to the other. " _Marchwardens?"_ he repeated eagerly. Frumgar gave a warning shake of his head when his brother opened his mouth to speak, knowing a string of questions would follow and his grandfather would be less than pleased.

Marhwini took the opportunity to unashamedly study the faces of the two Elves, attempting to read the intent behind their inscrutable expressions. The old man shook his head. "No need for your thanks, not after all you have done for my people...for my family." He glanced to Fram. "You both have my gratitude, and the gratitude of my people for coming to our aid. Many more would have been lost without your help, this I know, and I thank you." He placed his right fist over his heart and bowed, his grandsons following suit.

"It would have been wrong of us to ignore your plight," Celegon said. "It is our duty to rid this world of such vile creatures, whenever and wherever we find them. We could have done no less." He hesitated momentarily before extending his hand in friendship in the manner of Men. Marhwini clasped it tightly followed by his grandsons. Celegon clenched his jaw and fought the urge to wipe his hand on his leggings as the three men stepped around the campfire to find a place to sit, only managing to restrain himself for his brother's sake. He did not miss the disapproving frown Gilorn shot in his direction.

" _Do not look at me like that. They are filthy and reek of horse, among other things_ ," he said coolly in Sindarin while resuming his seated position. "Now give me your knives and I will clean them for you."

Gilorn narrowed his eyes at his brother but made no comment as he placed the blades in Celegon's waiting hands.

Marhwini beckoned over a gangly young boy carrying a platter of food, then sank to the ground with a groan, his grandsons sitting on either side of him. "A long, sad day it has been." He shifted in order to remove a stone from beneath him and tossed it over his shoulder. " _Leave the tray_ , _Von,_ " he ordered the boy who was too busy watching the Elves with open mouthed wonder to listen to his elder. Marhwini repeated his request and they all watched in amusement as the youngster distractedly placed the platter beside Frumgar and nearly tripped over his own feet as he backed away, unable to take his eyes off the Elves. "Don't mind Von. He's never seen an Elf, up close anyway. None of us had until we passed through Mirkwood a few years ago. Here, help yourselves," he offered, motioning towards the food.

Fram declined with a wave of his hand and a shake of his head claiming he had already been fed by his wife, but Frumgar grabbed a small loaf of bread and broke it in half, piling bits of roasted meat and root vegetables atop the halves and passing one to his grandfather. He took a big bite, savouring the first taste of food he had eaten since the morning meal. Both men began eating with great enthusiasm and no regard for neatness.

"The Elves we did see back then tended to keep their distance, making sure we didn't stray from the path and kill their precious animals or damage their precious trees. But grandfather did manage to get an audience with their king," Frumgar said through a mouthful of food. He took another bite of the overloaded bread and waved it in the Elves' direction, dropping some of its contents onto his lap. "You're not from there, are you? Mirkwood Elves never seemed to leave their forest, even when our settlements were under attack. They were happy enough to stay in their trees and watch us die from afar. I doubt any of them would have bothered their arses to join us in battle the way you did." His words were tinged with thinly veiled resentment.

Celegon had paused the polishing of his brother's blades, the cloth still poised in midair as he watched the man speak. He was unsure if he was more offended by the appalling table manners or the words spoken, but managed to tear his eyes from the crumbs and bits of food clinging to the man's beard and leather jerkin long enough to share a shocked glance with his brother. He was satisfied to see an expression of blatant distaste on his brother's usually serene face. Gilorn gave an imperceptible shake of his head so Celegon bit his tongue and remained silent, resuming his polishing with more vigour than necessary.

Marhwini looked at his grandson in disbelief. " _Are you an idiot?"_

" _Why? What did he say?"_ Fram leaned forward to better see his brother around his grandfather. " _What did you say to them?"_

Frumgar just shrugged, unbothered, and finished off the last bite of his meal. He brushed the crumbs from his lap while popping the larger bits of meat into his mouth and wiped his beard with his sleeve. "It's the truth, isn't it?"

" _Aye, it's the truth, but you didn't need to say it,"_ the old man sighed.

" _Say what? Will someone please tell me what's going on?_ " Fram demanded.

"It is true what my grandson says, though he...chose a poor way to say it." Marhwini cut his eyes in Frumgar's direction. "I swear I have raised him to speak with more respect. The Elves in Mirkwood did guide us through their forest, at their king's order, but they weren't happy about it. Never offered us any help once we settled here in the Vales either, though there were times we sorely needed it."

"The people of _Eryn Galen_ keep to themselves," Celegon quietly remarked, emphasising the proper name while he wiped an invisible speck from the knife's grip and stowed away the oil and cloth. "Their forest is sacred to them, as is every Elvenhome. I am surprised they allowed mortals to pass through their lands...unscathed." He held Gilorn's knife up to eye level and inspected the flawlessly polished blade, meeting Frumgar's gaze over the razor sharp edge. The firelight reflected in the bright metal and in the Elf's equally bright eyes. "Count yourselves fortunate." He handed over the pair of knives to his brother who slid them carefully into their sheaths while watching Celegon warily.

"Count ourselves fortunate, you say? Fortunate?" Frumgar's volume increased and he leaned forward in outrage, brushing his grandfather's steadying hand from his shoulder and rising to his feet while his brother looked on stunned. "Do you have any idea what these people have been through, what these children have seen?"

"That's enough, Frumgar. Sit down," Marhwini urged.

"Yes, Frumgar, that's enough. You would be wise to listen to your grandfather like a good boy and sit back down," Celegon's voice was low and calm, but his eyes sparked with challenge and his lips were set in a grim smile.

" _Celegon, do not antagonise him,"_ Gilorn groaned and dropped his forehead onto his palm.

"Boy?! I have more years than you, you beardless…"

" _I said that's enough_!" Marhwini's deep voice bellowed. He did not rise to his feet, but the command in his tone was clear and the displeasure on his face was apparent.

Fram's wide eyes darted between his grandfather and his brother. Frumgar frowned and bent to snatch another roll from the tray. He ripped it in half and roughly tore a bite from the corner, stalking a few paces away from the fire and chewing the dry bread with a sullen expression. Marhwini tapped Fram's arm and jerked his thumb in Frumgar's direction, indicating his desire for the young man to go and speak to his older brother.

Celegon had not moved from his relaxed position and sat watching the two younger men speaking rapidly together, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips.

" _Stop looking so pleased with yourself. Starting petty arguments is nothing to be proud of. Do you want them to think as poorly of us as they do Thranduil's people?"_ Gilorn's harsh whisper erased the smirk from his brother's face.

" _I care not what these edain think of us. Their opinion is inconsequential_ ," Celegon whispered back. " _And besides...I did not start it."_

Marhwini cleared his throat. "Please...forgive my grandson's temper. Our people have suffered much and we have lost many..." he began. His grandsons rejoined him then, Frumgar placing a hand on his grandfather's shoulder and murmuring an apology to him as he sat back down.

"There is nothing to forgive," Gilorn dismissed the old man's apology with a small smile, ignoring his brother's pointed glare. "As you say, it has been a long and sad day. For us all."

The old man watched the Elf's gaze fall to his lap where his hands lay, thumbs rubbing his fingertips. He did not miss the frown of concern that briefly crossed the elder Elf's features as he observed his brother, and he wondered at the softly spoken and strange sounding words exchanged between the pair. He was no fool. Though his face showed little emotion, the younger of the two was obviously distressed and Marhwini could guess why. "There was nothing you could have done, you know," he ventured, his rough voice as gentle as he could make it. "The fault was not yours, my boy." Two sets of icy blue eyes snapped to him and he met them calmly and thoughtfully.

Gilorn's gaze fell back to his hands in his lap and he sat for long moments in silent contemplation. "What was his name?" he quietly asked.

"Edgard." Marhwini picked a stick from the ground and began poking at the fire. "His father...Gerolt...he said you did more than our own healers could have. He said you...you sang to him a strange song. Said the boy found peace and seemed to feel no pain after that." He watched the Elf for a reaction but saw none, so began to break off bits of the stick and feed them to the flames. "You know, when I was a lad we had these...how do you say it, Frumgar? The ones who tell the tales."

Frumgar paused in his quiet translation to Fram, and frowned as he thought. "Wordsmiths it would be." This was the first he had heard of the Elf trying to save the life of young Edgard. He had been too busy earlier doing the rounds of his warriors and the families of the fallen to really speak to his grandfather about the battle or these strangers. Regret for his earlier rudeness began to creep into his gut, but he was dragged from his thoughts by a sharp word from Fram reminding him to continue translating.

"Wordsmiths, yes. They were revered among my people, travelling between the Northern tribes, telling tales and reciting the histories for the little ones to learn. When I was a lad I heard many tales of your people from the Wordsmiths." Gilorn looked up, surprised and curious, and the two young men listened with interest, eager to hear what their grandfather would say. Even Celegon's stern expression melted into one of curiosity. Marhwini chuckled. "They said Elves were fierce in battle, which I have seen. They said Elves were the fairest folk, which I have seen. They also said Elves have...magic, and I wonder if I have seen that as well." He peered steadily into Gilorn's otherworldly eyes, searching for any hint of truth in what he suspected, but received only a small, mysterious smile.

"Elves do not possess magic, at least not as you know it," Gilorn said at last, glancing over at his brother to gauge his reaction. Celegon was watching him closely, waiting as expectantly as the others to hear the explanation he would provide these men. "In this world there is the Seen and the Unseen, and there are those who are connected to both."

"And you are connected to both," the old man speculated.

Gilorn simply shrugged a shoulder. "Everything is connected."

"The tales also said that an Elf's arrow always flies straight, though their words seldom do," Marhwini said, the corners of his eyes crinkling with humour. This brought a genuine smile to the quiet Elf's face, but Marhwini decided not to press him for more. He was not sure he truly wanted to know exactly what these two were capable of. They looked innocent enough on the surface and interacted with one another in a manner similar to his own grandsons, but there was an underlying otherness that all Elves possessed that made him uncomfortable in their presence. The two were again speaking quietly to each other in their lyrical language, the elder passing his distracted younger brother a piece of bread and hard cheese from the platter. Marhwini had the distinct impression that the younger Elf was being chastised for perhaps saying more than he should have.

It did not escape Celegon's notice that the old man was observing them a bit too intently for his taste, his brother especially. The man needed to be distracted from asking more questions about things he could not possibly comprehend. "These wordsmiths of yours. Are there any here tonight? I would be curious to hear some of their tales."

"There are none here," Frumgar stated firmly.

Celegon tilted his head in question. "None? A pity, that. I am sure they would be most interesting storytellers."

"They were not just storytellers," Marhwini eventually replied. "They were the keepers of knowledge. Wise men and women who dedicated their lives to learning and teaching."

"Do your people have no books then in which to keep their knowledge, instead of these walking libraries?" Celegon asked with wry grin.

"No. We do not." Marhwini fidgeted with the last small bit of stick he held loosely in his fingers before flicking it into the campfire. "Our history is passed down in story and song, not written words," he began slowly. "Written words are imprisoned within books and scrolls and left forgotten on dusty shelves in lonely rooms. They can be erased and destroyed. Speaking them, singing them, sets them free." He met the inquisitive gaze of the Elf. "The Wordsmiths are no more. None that I know of escaped the North. It is up to us to remember now, but as long as my people, the Éotheod, are able to speak and to sing, our history will not be forgotten... _we_ will not be forgotten. Every child can recite the stories, every maiden can sing the songs, every man can recall the line of his fathers back to the beginning. We are a simple people, yes, but we are no less learned than others of our race." Marhwini let his eyes drift over to the men and women in the campsite, all of them faces and families he knew well. He watched the few children who were still running about, too full of energy to be wrangled into bed, and his expression grew somber. "New Wordsmiths will grow to replace the old, and they will tell the tales of these dark days."

Frumgar swallowed hard the emotion rising in his throat and decided to speak up then and break the heavy silence that followed. "My apologies for snapping at you earlier...Captain. It was uncalled for." He rubbed his hands over his face and through his long, unkempt hair. "The pressure to protect our people is high and I...I just..." he trailed off, unsure how to say what needed to be said.

Celegon shook his head. "I understand well the pressure to protect. And not only the people who look to you for safety, but also younger brothers who do not always act with their own well being in mind." He shared a knowing look with the young man and tilted his head in Gilorn's direction. "You need not explain, and you need not call me Captain." He watched a range of emotion play across the man's face and felt his anger toward him begin to dissipate. "I...also apologise. For antagonising you." Beside him Gilorn coughed in surprise, nearly choking on a bit of cheese. Celegon quirked an eyebrow at his brother while giving him a few hard thumps on the back to ease his coughing fit. " _Not a word,"_ he warned with half a smile and narrowed eyes.

" _So. You are Marchwardens then_? _Like Beleg and Mablung of old_?" Fram asked eagerly. He could contain himself no longer and the question he had been yearning to ask earlier finally burst from his lips. Both his brother and grandfather looked at him in surprise, not only for the unexpected question, but also the excitement with which it was asked. He drew his knees up before him and rested his arms atop them, an embarrassed, boyish grin curving his lips. " _I also remember well the Wordsmiths' tales from my childhood. The stories of the Elves were my favourite,_ " he admitted sheepishly. Frumgar snorted laughter, receiving an offended glare from his brother. " _I may not know Westron, Frumgar, but I do know history. The tales said Marchwardens disappeared with the First Age, though. I was just curious is all. Besides, we both know you used run around swinging your ax and pretending to be a Dwarf. I don't know why you're laughing._ "

Frumgar felt the heat rise to his cheeks, worsened by the fact that his grandfather was nearly failing in his attempt to stifle his laughter. He managed to keep a straight face as he relayed his brother's question to the Elves, leaving out his own childhood embarrassment.

Celegon was taken aback and could not help but be impressed by this boy's surprising knowledge of two Elven warriors long departed. He found himself wondering what other tales of his people these Northmen might know and just what sort of knowledge the Wordsmiths had kept. Perhaps these Men were not as unlearned as he had thought.

"We are indeed Marchwardens, though not as great as those of whom you speak," Gilorn answered and his brother hummed his agreement.

"It is true that most Marchwardens of old were lost when Doriath fell at the end of the First Age, but a few survived and left to guard the borders of other realms, our father among them," Celegon explained.

Marhwini straightened slowly from his slouched position, attempting to keep the astonishment from his face. "You are saying your father was alive at the end of the First Age?" It was a question, but sounded more like a statement.

"He was alive until the end of the Second Age," Gilorn acknowledged, tossing bits of his bread crust into the flames and watching them blacken.

"But...you are…"

Gilorn gave the old man a sly smile. "Your elder by several millennia, _young one_."

Marhwini shifted his weight and stroked his beard, deep in thought and slightly embarrassed. "I see," he said quietly, attempting to hide just how ill at ease he truly was with the thought that the two youthful faces across from him had actually seen millennia pass them by.

As his brother echoed the conversation for his benefit, Fram stared at the two Elves in disbelief. He finally managed to drag his eyes away long enough to look over at his grandfather when the old man spoke. "And...the Mirkwood King?"

Celegon stretched his legs out in front of him, leaning back on his hands. "What about him?"

"Is he...as old as you?" Marhwini asked hesitantly.

"Not quite," Gilorn chuckled.

" _Exactly how old are you?"_ Fram blurted, unable to curb his curiosity.

Celegon arched an eyebrow at the boy's impertinent question once Frumgar had repeated it. "Such things cease to be relevant after a time. Is it really so important?"

Marhwini stood abruptly and began pacing out his anxiety. Things he had previously doubted had been proven true, things he had taken for fact were now thrown into doubt. His self assurance had been shaken by these revelations, and it was all brought about by this pair of Elves sitting calmly and watching him with haunting eyes that had seen too many years. Their presence during these evil times was too coincidental. He stopped in his tracks and stood towering over them, separated by the flames of the campfire. "Why are you here?" he demanded. "What is your purpose?"

" _Grandfather…"_ Fram began, sensing the growing tension, but he was silenced with a sharp gesture.

Gilorn opened his mouth to speak, but the old man began pacing again, stroking his beard and muttering to himself in his own language as he stalked back and forth. He stopped once more. "You said there were other Elven realms. Is the Mirkwood king ruler of those as well? And where is your own realm? Why are you here instead of guarding its borders as Marchwardens are supposed to do?"

The mistrust Celegon had glimpsed in the man earlier was now mixed with anger and even a trace of fear, though Marhwini would deny it. Celegon watched him warily, ready to take action should the man's ire warrant it. Even his grandsons appeared antsy and unsure of what to expect.

"What business brings the Captain of...whatever you called it...here to this dangerous place, alone with your brother?" The old man gestured widely to the area around him and stood waiting for answers with his fists on his hips. "Are you here because of what happened two nights ago?"

The Elves exchanged a quick glance. "Our business is our own," Celegon firmly stated. "We delayed our journey to render aid to your people and are only here now because my brother desires it. We do not intend to impose on your...hospitality...long."

"That does not answer my questions," Marhwini's dark eyes glinted down at them in the firelight.

"That is the only answer you will receive," Celegon snapped and sat up straight again. His good humour and patience had fled, quickly replaced by annoyance and defensiveness. He was ready to jump to his feet to stand face to face with the old man, but was stopped by his brother's light touch on his arm.

"Wait a moment. What happened two nights ago?" Gilorn asked.

The old man folded his arms across his wide chest in defiance. "Answer my questions and I will answer yours."

Gilorn felt Celegon's muscles tense under his hand. He increased the pressure of his grip, silently begging for calm. He knew his brother was only seconds away from surging to his feet and speaking words that would do irreparable damage, and Gilorn did not wish to part from these men in anger. He suspected they were part of the reason why the Lady had seen fit to send them in this direction instead of the safer southern pass. "Very well. I will answer your questions." His softly spoken words drew everyone's attention.

" _You most certainly will not_!" Celegon ordered, his expression fierce.

" _Do you not trust me to handle this, brother?"_ Gilorn kept his tone and his expression neutral and released Celegon's arm. He then turned his attention back to the three men. "I will give him the answers he seeks," he said more pleasantly, pouring all of his considerable charm into the smile he gave them. "Will you not sit, Marhwini? We are all friends here, are we not?"

The man seemed taken aback by the Elf's good natured offer and amiable mien, which stood in stark contrast to the anger and belligerence exuded by his brother. He lowered his arms slowly, the urge to sit back down and resume the conversation overwhelming. He hesitated momentarily before taking his seat between his grandsons who were visibly relieved at his concession. Marhwini felt much of his anxiety melt away under the warmth of that kind smile and found himself wishing not to part from these Elves in anger. "Go on then. I'm listening," he said as he tried to make himself as comfortable as possible on the hard ground.

"There are other Elven realms, yes, but Thranduil rules only Eryn Galen. He is the last Elvenking, the last of his line. The other realms are governed by Lords and Ladies whom their people hold in high esteem." Gilorn maintained eye contact with Marhwini while Celegon watched with a guarded expression, allowing his brother to guide the conversation. "We hail from Lothlórien, the golden wood, little more than a day's journey south of here. My brother is indeed Captain of its wardens, myself included, and we have relentlessly guarded its borders for millennia, though our current task takes us far from home. Our Lord has asked that we act as messengers to another realm. We are merely passing through the Vales on our way farther north. It was never our intent to linger here, or to importune you in any way, but we could not turn our backs and continue on when we saw your people under attack. As for the two of us travelling alone...well, no more wardens could be spared. Our borders are constantly assailed by orcs these past decades and must be closely guarded, but we are more than capable of defending ourselves against whatever we should meet, as you have seen." Gilorn again smiled kindly at the men, so smoothly mixing truth and untruth that the shrewd elder could sense no lie in his words. "Does this answer your questions?"

Marhwini thought for a moment, still unwilling to break eye contact with Gilorn. "Aye. For now." The Elf inclined his head and Marhwini finally looked away. "Though...I am not so sure that the two of you will be enough for what walks these Vales."

"What are you trying to say?" Celegon asked suspiciously.

"That there are more than just orcs roaming these lands. Something dark holds sway in southern Mirkwood, something altogether evil, and the king seems to allow it. Foul creatures spill out of his southern borders and attack our settlements, slaughtering our people. Twisted animals that look like wolves but are nearly the size of a horse, and spiders large enough to carry off a man." Marhwini stared into the fire with a haunted expression. "And they have. Most of my people moved to the western shore after...after children were taken, but…" His words trailed off and he stared frowning into the fire.

"Some stayed," Frumgar finished for him. "Our people are stubborn and fierce. Some refused to leave their homesteads on the eastern shore, defending them to the last and cursing the Mirkwood Elves who do nothing to help. Those of us who did choose to cross the river still had to be constantly vigilant against the orcs that live near the mountains. They raided our settlements taking cattle and horses, sometimes even women if they could get them, but still our people defended the homes they had claimed. All we wanted was a land to call our own, a place to settle once more and be free of the wars in the North, but there is no peace here. We've found only death, so we leave."

Gilorn felt his heart sink and his gut churn thinking of what these people had endured. He knew well the cruelty of orcs and what befell their victims after capture, having seen it first hand in countless battles over the long years of his life. The fact that for years these people had so stubbornly held out against such a threat instilled within him a growing admiration for their tenacity, though he questioned their wisdom. "And...two nights ago?" he gently probed. "What happened?"

"The forest awakened." Marhwini said quietly. His dark eyes reflected the flickering, golden light as he stared into the campfire, though he did not see the flames...only the shadow of the past.

 **TBC...**

 **A/N:** I hope you enjoyed this double-length chapter. I felt I owed it to my readers after such a long hiatus : ) Thank you all for reading and following and adding this story to your favourites. I appreciate each and every one of you! A special thank you to **The Real Floranocturna** and **thrndlwood** for leaving such lovely reviews :D **\- L**

 _ **Adan / Edain**_ \- Man / Men

 _ **Eryn Galen**_ \- Greenwood the Great / Mirkwood

 _ **Éotheod**_ \- Northmen, in the future they will become the people of Rohan

* _Just a reminder that this story is AU / canon divergent._


	12. The Dim Light of a New Dawn

**A/N:** _Please note that dialogue in italics within a conversation is in the speaker's native language_

 **Vales of the Anduin**

"What? What do you mean the forest awakened?" Gilorn asked, leaning forward. The old man's eyes left the flames and met the puzzled eyes of the Elf. Gilorn could read clearly the emotions displayed within their depths: horror, sadness, fear, and one he did not expect...defeat.

"We are all that is left. I must lead them to safety. I must..." Marhwini looked at each of his grandsons, then over to the people in the encampment. "Have I made a terrible mistake leading them here? Are all southern lands so perilous...filled with evil and walking trees?"

"Walking trees?" Gilorn whispered. His breath caught in his throat and he glanced quickly to his brother whose fingers were digging painfully into his arm.

"Explain, Marhwini," Celegon demanded, still gripping his brother and silently begging him to remain calm. "Tell us what happened."

"The old bent tree, the one near the river." His gaze, now unfocused and lost in memory, had travelled back to the fire. "Fellroot we called it. The ground around it was treacherous, you see. The roots always seemed to be where they weren't supposed to be, tripping you or catching at your clothes as you passed by. Always seemed to have the bones or carcass of some poor animal stuck in them as well, sometimes even an orc, almost as if it was...trapping them if they got too near. The children liked to climb it, play on it, but...something happened, an accident." Marhwini sighed and tilted his face to the night sky. "We kept them away after that. It was too dangerous." The old man hesitated and dragged a hand through his long grey hair, looking again at the Elves. "You will think me mad."

"No," Gilorn assured him, a cold thread of apprehension winding its way through his core. "Please, go on."

Marhwini licked his lips nervously and opened his mouth to speak, but seemed unsure where or how to begin. Frumgar placed a reassuring hand on his grandfather's shoulder as Fram looked on with a worried expression, knowing without being told what his grandfather was attempting to explain. "That tree was alive. Not alive like other trees, but _alive_ like you and me. It had a face, it _walked_. It…" his words trailed off into uncertain silence.

Gilorn surged to his feet, pulling himself from his brother's grasp. " _Hír Fangorn has awakened! Celegon, we must go!"_ He looked to his brother, wide-eyed and eager to be away, but Celegon pulled him back down by his cloak and held him there firmly with a hand on his shoulder.

" _We cannot!_ _Calm yourself and wait."_ Celegon released his brother when he felt sure he would remain seated. " _We need to know what happened. Besides, we are committed to another task that we cannot abandon."_ He turned away from his brother only to catch the eye of Frumgar who watched them with suspicion. "Tell us what happened," he nodded toward the younger man since Marhwini seemed once again lost in thought.

Frumgar glanced away and sighed heavily. "Two nights ago we were part of a search party. A group of children had been out playing, one of them strayed too far and became separated in a copse of woods that grows near the river. The boy's mother came to my father for help, frantic when the lad didn't come home for his dinner. We knew orcs had been seen in the area during the afternoon. They've been growing bolder, venturing out during the daylight, no longer waiting until the dim hours. The boy was nowhere to be found and it was getting late so we gathered all the men we could spare to search. Thirty of us, altogether. The sun went down and still we searched. It was a dark night, no moon. We had torches, but..." he stopped speaking and drew a shaky breath.

"My father and I were part of the group searching near old Fellroot. We were focused on the ground, looking for tracks, when we began to hear...noises...coming from the tree. I swear it was groaning and creaking, but there was no wind." He looked at the Elves, his dark eyes pleading for understanding. "The ground felt as if it was moving. We feared the riverbank had weakened from the heavy rains in the days before and was about to collapse but...we found the boy's tracks, and then the boy, but we were too late. He had somehow gotten himself twisted up in the vines and…" Frumgar shook his head and frowned, unable to speak aloud the boy's fate.

"We called out to the other group nearby. My grandfather and the boy's uncle, Alden, were with them. Alden...he was mad with grief when he saw the little lad. He started tearing at the vines to get him free, but...there was that groaning again from the tree and a loud cracking from underground. The ground shook and my father and I called the men back away from the riverbank. We were sure it was going to give way at any moment and take us all with it. A few listened and followed us, but...then…" Frumgar hesitated and swallowed. "It _roared._ The tree _roared_ and ripped itself from the earth and...and stood up! Mud went flying, the horses bolted, men were running and shouting, but old Fellroot just stood there, looking around. _Looking_! It had a _face_! Big glowing green eyes and a mouth and, and its limbs weren't limbs...they were _arms_ with _hands!_ " Frumgar held up his own hands to illustrate, his eyes wide with remembered fear and ruddy cheeks now pale. Marhwini did not look much better as he stared off into the distance.

"One of the men took an axe to the tree then. I don't know if he was trying to kill it or cut the vines that still held the boy, but...old Fellroot didn't like it. It went mad, pulled its legs out of the ground and began smashing and stomping everyone within reach. Orcs swarmed out of the darkness then and it was...chaos. I don't remember much after that. I was too busy trying to stay alive, dodging that monster of a tree and the damned orcs, but I do remember running through the woods and I swear those trees were coming alive as well! They were bending and moving, but there was no wind to move them. I could feel their branches reaching out for me and their roots rising up through the dirt." Frumgar shuddered. "We went back after the monster had gone, but there was no one left alive. Out of thirty, only five of us survived. Five! My father and grandfather, myself and two others. That's all. My father he...he took the other two, Éamon and Osric, and they followed the tree. We haven't heard from them since, but we cannot stay here any longer. Not after that. My father will follow. He will see our tracks and he will follow. I know he will."

 **2 days previous...**

Too long had he been without any real sensation, deaf and blind to his surroundings. The Ent had been only vaguely aware of the slow passage of time, of the changing of many seasons. He knew long years had passed as he slumbered but was unsure of just _how_ long, and now that he was awake time seemed to be sped up and moving too quickly for his taste. Even the landscape around him seemed to pass by in a blur as his trunk-like legs carried him ever northward.

Though a dull sadness plagued him, Treebeard could not help but feel joy at rejoining the waking world. He relished the feeling of grass beneath his feet and the breeze against his skin as he strode through the waning night and towards the growing shadow of trees in the north. He much preferred going south. South felt like home, like warm summers and green leaves, like strolling downhill with the wind in your face, like an inviting beam of dappled sunlight shining through the forest canopy. Travelling north now seemed to bring about a sense of dread and the stabbing pain of memories best left forgotten.

His bushy brows drew together in a frown and his feet stopped in their tracks. This place was familiar, changed from the long passage of time, but it _felt_ familiar nonetheless. His amber eyes looked around slowly, an ache forming in his chest. _It was here. This is where he was lost._

"Quickbeam, my old friend" he murmured. "Oh, how I failed you."

His eyes drifted closed and memory swept him far away, forcing him to relive his gruesome discovery and the horror that came with it. The gentle golden voice was there, as usual, whispering of revenge and urging him forward, but his feet remained planted.

He let his eyes open and soon found them focusing on a small rise upon which grew two ancient yew with branches and roots intertwined. The earth beneath the trees was barren and littered with fallen brown needles, yet somehow a colourful array of flowers thrived in the gloom of their shadow. He could see their vibrant spots of colour even in the dimness. Such growth went against the natural order of things, and if there was one thing the Ent knew it was the natural order. Treebeard frowned and wandered toward the hill, his curiosity piqued. The nearer he came, the more he could see the ground was rich from tender care.

"Hoommm. Well. This is a strange thing indeed." His long fingers stroked his mossy beard as he inspected the area. "Elf work," he proclaimed to the pre-dawn silence. Elf work of centuries past, surely, but Elves had a way of leaving their mark.

He moved closer and reached out a hand to one of the yew, letting his palm pass gently over its green needles and humming a greeting to the sleeping tree. It remained silent though he could feel a stirring of recognition deep within its dreamy mind. So old were these trees that their lengthy branches drooped low to the ground as if they had grown tired of holding them upright over the years. Gnarled, greenish-grey trunks had worn smooth over the centuries and were adorned with many knots and splits and cracks. He could see signs of axe damage, some relatively recent, and his eyes narrowed in anger. The closer he looked at the two trees, the more obvious the signs of damage became. Most of their lower branches had been hacked off, exposing pale sapwood and the red heartwood deep within. Whether it was done by orcs or by Men he did not know, but he did know that Elves would never do such a thing. An Elf would take nothing from a living tree that was not offered freely.

Treebeard sank his toes into the dark soil, his gaze growing unfocused as he connected with the tree's consciousness. Flashes of old pain and the memory of helplessness sizzled through him, travelling from the yew's somnolent mind into his own. He sent waves of calming comfort in return, soothing the ripples of the disturbance he had caused, but then he felt... _something else._ A tendril of something tantalisingly familiar within the earth here as if…

"No," he whispered. "You are just a memory now. Long gone." His vision cleared and he stared wide-eyed at the yew trees, the flowers, the Elf-tended earth, and realisation dawned. "It cannot be." But he knew in his heart it was true.

The yew were favoured by Elves not only for the making of bows but also for adorning sacred places, places of death and remembrance. Perhaps they felt a sort of kinship with the yew, trees whose long lives and long memory could rival that of the Eldar. Elves had put these trees here to mark Quickbeam's final resting place, and their roots...the roots of these trees had dug deep, embracing the fallen Ent in his eternal slumber, welcoming him in his decay back into the circle of life, the shell that had housed his _fëa_ nourishing their growth throughout the years. A harsh breath escaped Treebeard's lungs. This was why he could still feel a wisp of his friend here in this place; he _was_ still in this place.

As the sunrise began to lighten the eastern sky, painting it in shades of gold and purple, Treebeard started to sing. Hanging his head, he closed his eyes and let a deep, rumbling melody flow from the core of his being, letting it roll through him and down into the soil. He sang to the yew and to the earth and to his friend long gone. Wordlessly he sang to them, wordlessly he called to them, and wordlessly they answered.

The ground trembled with power, the very air vibrated with the energy of awakening, and the yew trees stirred. Twisted branches that had woven together over time and dipped low to brush the ground now unfurled and lifted skyward, bent trunks stood straighter, and sinuous roots broke free from the earth that had once bound them. Treebeard opened his eyes and looked with wonder upon that which he had unintentionally called forth.

"Bless my bark!"

Two sets of large emerald green eyes appeared upon the knotty trunks of the yew, blinking to life and peering at him from silent, mouthless faces. The trees began to pull themselves apart as he watched, straining and creaking with effort, splitting and fracturing their trunks, creating with a mighty cracking and splintering of living wood legs to walk upon. They then pulled themselves from the earth with a spray of dirt and a shower of green needles, snapping the roots that had held them in place for centuries. Creaking, groaning and swaying slightly they stood tall before their Lord, taller even than he. The golden voice rang triumphantly in Treebeard's mind, filling him with an irrepressible sense of pride, of purpose, of power, and he revelled in it.

"By Yavanna's blessing have you been awakened," he declared, "and by my leave, you will accompany me, vessels of my old friend. Perhaps I will not fail you as I once failed him."

Whispers carried on the early morning breeze reached the Ent's ears, voices he had heard somewhere before, and the tang of metal was carried with them. He could smell the steel and knew its purpose; his body still ached from its sting in the night. Dark clouds of anger began to build on the horizon of his mind and the two trees shivered in response, their eyes taking on a luminous quality in the dim light of dawn. Unbeknownst to him, Treebeard's own eyes sparked with the same eerie light as he turned to meet the foes who had dared to follow him.

 **Vales of the Anduin**

Frumgar hesitantly lifted his face to gauge the Elves' reaction, expecting to see either disbelief or derision after hearing such an unlikely tale, but he saw neither. He tilted his head, peering at them in confusion as they spoke rapidly to one another in their own language and glanced occasionally in his direction. The younger Elf appeared to be deeply concerned, his brow creased with worry and his hands gesturing wildly as he pleaded desperately with his brother, but the elder remained unmoved and spoke firmly and calmly. Realisation dawned in Frumgar's mind. "You knew," he whispered. His grandfather perked up and turned to him in question. The Elves fell silent and regarded him tensely. "They knew!" he said more certainly, accusing. He saw the look shared between the pair and sensed he was correct.

Gilorn raised his hands in a defensive gesture and shook his head in denial. "No! We knew nothing of these tidings, I can assure you."

"Then why do you look as if this is no surprise?" Frumgar demanded. "Do you often hear tell of trees getting up and walking around, stomping the life out of everyone nearby?"

"Oh, we are surprised, have no doubt," Celegon said drolly. Marhwini shot him a withering look.

"Yet there's something you aren't telling us," the old man declared, his suspicion and anger rising. "What do you know?"

Celegon sighed wearily and pinched the bridge of his nose before answering. "He is an Ent, not a tree, and his name is Fangorn, or Treebeard, but certainly not _Fellroot_." He spoke the name with derision. "He has been...asleep, I suppose you could say, for the last thousand years or so, though it appears he has finally recovered and decided to awaken."

"What? What evil is this? I have never heard of such a thing!" Marhwini exclaimed. "Are there more of these...these monsters?"

"The Lord of Fangorn is no monster!" Gilorn defended. "He is an Ent! They are ancient beings, gentle and wise, beloved creations of Yavanna herself, put here to protect her forests and shepherd her trees."

"The Lord of...of..." Marhwini stuttered in indignation. "Gentle? Gentle my arse! This gentle being in all of its wisdom crushed innocent men into the mud beneath its feet until there was nothing left of them! Nothing!" he bellowed, spittle flying from his lips as he spoke. " _My_ men!" He banged his fist to his chest for emphasis and pushed himself up from the ground, stalking over to the Elves. He grabbed Gilorn by the front of his tunic and roughly snatched him to his feet. Celegon's blade was at the man's throat in a flash, but Marhwini ignored it and pulled Gilorn closer to his face. The two younger men gave a shout of surprise and surged to their feet.

"Release my brother," Celegon hissed.

Marhwini paid no heed to the angry Elf or to the blood trickling down the side of his neck from the pressure of the sharp blade against his soft skin. Instead, he looked fiercely into the eyes of the surprised Elf he held in his grip. "Listen to me very carefully and answer me truthfully. If you lie I will know it and neither of you will leave this camp alive. Are you in league with this evil, this darkness haunting these lands?" His voice was rough and his eyes glinted in the dark. He could feel the Elven blade dig deeper into the vulnerable flesh of his throat, and he could hear shouts of alarm in the distance, along with Fram's voice frantically begging him to release the Elf. He had no doubt the Elf's brother would end his life in a heartbeat, and he gave a brief thought to the men, his grandsons included, who would rush to avenge him and surely lose their lives as well.

He watched as a deadly calm replaced the surprise in the Elf's eyes, and felt warm fingers wrap gently around his wrists. "You are unwise to threaten me," Gilorn said quietly, his grip tightening. "I will gladly answer your question and I will speak no lie, but you would do well to remove your hands, else I will remove them for you."

"Not before I remove his head," Celegon promised darkly.

"Release me, Marhwini son of Marhari, and let us speak reasonably," Gilorn's quiet command pierced the fog of anger, and Marhwini felt his fingers loosen their grip of the Elf's grey tunic and felt the cold steel blade disappear from his throat.

He swiped at the thin stream of blood trickling down the side of his neck. He had not wanted to let go, had not intended to, but his fingers seemed to have acted of their own accord. He looked down at his open hand as if it had betrayed him, for he had greatly desired to unleash his anger on the ones he thought may hold some culpability in the loss of his men. His eyes flicked from one Elf to the other, their faces unforgiving and alight with fury, and then to Frumgar who was attempting to calm and hold back the warriors rushing to the scene. He could feel Fram tugging on his arm, pulling him away and placing himself between his grandfather and the Elves. The young man stood facing Marhwini with his hands raised in a placating manner, watching him with worry.

" _Please don't hurt him, grandfather. He saved my life, remember? They are not our enemies, please don't make it so."_

" _You defend them?"_ Marhwini asked in disbelief.

" _They've done nothing wrong!"_

" _We shall see,"_ he muttered, keeping an eye on the two Elves. They stood side by side, warily watching him as he conversed with his grandson. The elder Elf spoke softly to his younger brother who nodded his agreement at whatever had been said.

Frumgar had successfully dispersed the warriors who had thought to aid their lord, though some could not be assuaged and still stood at the ready nearby. He strode over to Marhwini, fists clenched. " _What in Béma's name was that all about?_ "

" _They are in league with that monster! They must be. Why else would they defend it?"_ Marhwini began to pace back and forth, firmly in the grip of his gnawing anxiety.

" _Ask them! That they knew of this creature is suspicious, yes, but are they responsible for its actions? I do not believe so,"_ Frumgar reasoned, and placed his hands on Marhwini's shoulders to stop his pacing. " _I am angry as well, grandfather, but we should not be hasty in making enemies of these Elves. Perhaps they know of safer lands. Perhaps they would help if we ask it, unlike those in Mirkwood."_

" _You won't get the chance to ask them anything if you don't do it now. They're leaving,"_ Fram remarked.

The men turned to find Gilorn still standing where he had been when Marhwini had released him, his arms folded across his chest and watching them with a disappointed frown, while his brother knelt by the campfire gathering their belongings.

" _You must apologise, grandfather,"_ Fram's expression was pleading. " _You shouldn't leave this unresolved. What if they can help us?"_

Marhwini put his hands on his hips and turned his back on the Elves, knowing his grandsons were right and that he must swallow his pride. He stood staring down at his battered boots while coming to terms with what he must do and angrily kicked away a stone that dared to lay too near. A long string of violent swears flowed from his lips, raising the eyebrows of his grandsons and the few others within hearing distance. He took a few deep breaths, squared his shoulders and turned back around, striding over to stand before the waiting Elf.

With little hesitation, Marhwini placed his right fist over his heart and bowed low. "I must apologise for my behaviour. It was...inexcusable. I do not wish us to part ways in anger, and humbly ask for your forgiveness." He straightened and extended his hand. Gilorn did not move but glanced dispassionately at the offered hand. "Whether I have earned your forgiveness or not, I ask that you and your brother remain as our guests until the morning. It is not safe to travel these lands during the night."

Gilorn remained silent and still, looking down his nose at Marhwini's face for long moments before unfolding his arms and taking the offered hand in a firm grip. He kept hold of the hand, squeezing until he could feel the man's bones grinding together, and bent his face nearer to Marhwini's own. "That is the last time you threaten me or my brother. Do you understand?" Marhwini clenched his jaw against the pain in his hand, chilled to the core by the seemingly kind Elf's frigid tone and piercing eyes. He nodded once in understanding and Gilorn released his hand. "You have my forgiveness then, though I doubt you will receive the same from my brother." The Elf swung around to go, his cloak fluttering around him, but spoke sharply to Marhwini over his shoulder before he walked away, "And do not think for one moment that we are allied with evil, for if we were none of you would still be standing."

Marhwini released the breath he had been holding, the coil of anxiety unknotting itself within him, and walked slowly back to his waiting grandsons. " _I need a drink_ ," he sighed.

 **2 days previous…**

For hours Forthwine and his two companions had ridden through the darkness, stopping only for a brief rest of the horses. They did not speak to one another of what they had seen, they did not speak at all, each lost in his own thoughts, unable to escape the events replaying in their minds. As much as they wished to deny the nightmare, the evidence of it was splattered across their faces, smeared upon their clothes. They had tracked the monster to this place and watched it now, hidden from sight behind a cluster of large boulders. It stood in the near distance as if lost in thought, a great hulking shadow in the dim light of a new dawn.

"What's it doing?" Osric whispered. "Why has it stopped?"

Forthwine glanced at his friend and shook his head. "I don't know."

The three men watched in silence as the monster approached the Lonely Trees. His people had named them thus, for the two ancient yew stood sentinel over an expanse of grass and scrub where no other trees grew. They had become a landmark, a meeting place for the Éothéod who lived scattered throughout the Vales. Great feasts had once been held here, joyful gatherings to mark the changing of seasons, before the shadow of darkness had crept in and tainted their lives. Now the Vales were dotted with the charred remains of once-happy homes, skeletal reminders of lost hope and stolen dreams, hollow entities left behind as one by one, family by family, his people fled for greener pastures. But it was not greener pastures they had found, only more of the same...and something even worse, something monstrous, and it stood before them now.

Forthwine swallowed the knot of fear forming in his throat. Knelt between two of his childhood friends, he began to doubt the wisdom of pursuing this monstrosity, a decision made when the fire of revenge was hot in their blood. "We should not have come," he whispered to himself. "We should not have followed."

Osric looked at him with wild, haunted eyes. "That... _thing..._ killed the only family I had left. I'll be damned if I let it roam free. Go back, if you will. I have nothing else to lose," he growled. His fingers gripped his axe tighter, the leather of his bloodstained gloves creaking slightly in the darkness, but his tone and his eyes gentled as he looked over at his friend. "You, however, still have two sons. Abandon this madness and go back to them, Forthwine."

"No. I will not leave you both to stand alone. Together we have a chance, though a slim one at best." Forthwine turned his eyes away from Osric's face, unable to look long upon it. He knew it was the blood of the man's own brother and son that stained it, darkening the ends of his long shaggy blonde hair, and he could not abide the visions the sight conjured. He sighed and looked over at his other friend. "Will you stay, Éamon, or will you go?"

Éamon shook his head slightly. "This is madness. I fear we will not walk away from this one, my brothers." He exhaled a quiet, shaky laugh. His blue eyes glinted with mirth despite the fear dancing behind them. "Of all the ways I thought to die, death by tree was not one of them. I had rather hoped it would be in the comfort of my own bed with a busty maid bouncing atop me," he sighed, a crooked grin revealing crooked teeth, and the other two snorted.

"The busty maids won't know what to do with themselves without your unwanted attention, I'm sure," Osric grumbled, his eyes turning once more to the beast standing in the shadows.

"Oh, but your sister wanted it," Éamon retorted, earning himself a slap to the back of the head.

"Do not sully my sister's memory with your vulgar jokes," Osric replied with an angry frown.

"It wasn't her memory I sullied over and over again, and you know it."

Forthwine placed a firm hand on each of their backs and shoved them closer to the rocks. "Now is not the time. Be silent! I'm trying to think." His eyes never left the hulking form near the Lonely Trees. "Besides, we all know your sister was a willing and quite vocal participant in any sullying that went on."

Éamon attempted to stifle his silent laughter and Osric did his best to remain disgruntled, though he could not hide the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Forthwine watched his friends with a sad fondness, grateful for the momentarily lightened mood. One could always count on Éamon for inappropriate humour at the most inopportune time. If this was to be the end of their long friendship, so be it, as long as they brought an end to this monster as well.

"We need rope," Forthwine said, his mind now set on a plan of action. "And fire."

The laughter stopped, and the seriousness of the situation settled like a heavy pall over the three friends once more.

"I've rope in my saddle bags but we've nothing for torch making. The only dry wood around lies past the monster and beneath the Lonely Trees," Osric said.

"We could set the grass alight," Éamon offered.

"The ground's too wet. It wouldn't take, not as I need. And it's not the grass I want to burn. It's him." Forthwine's eyes narrowed. "Get the rope and fetch the horses. We're going to bring him down."

Éamon and Osric shared a look, grim smiles spreading and a faint hope blossoming. They may yet survive. Osric turned to sneak back to the horses, but froze in his tracks when a deep rumbling melody began to emanate from the treeish monster in the distance. "What is that?" he asked, his eyes wide and fearful.

Éamon peeked over the boulders. "It's singing. It's singing to the trees," he whispered. He sank back to his knees and rested his shoulder against the stone, slowly drawing his sword and small axe. "We should attack now while it's distracted."

Forthwine looked desperately at Osric. "Go! Hurry!" He watched a moment as the man took off in a crouched run towards their horses waiting in the distance, soon disappearing into the shadows, and pulled his own weighty axe from the brass ring at his belt. "This will be axe work, to be sure."

He ran his thumb over the keen edge and admired how it caught the pale light of the rising sun. Beautifully decorated with interwoven lines and knots without end, it had been forged by the Dwarves of the Iron Mountains long ago and was an heirloom of his father's line. Gifted by Durin's folk to the Northern Kings of old centuries ago, it had been passed from father to son until it had come to him, and it had hung at his side nearly every day since. The leather-wrapped, wooden haft had been replaced over the years, but its parts of iron and steel were still as new. On one side of the head was a sharp, curved cutting edge and on the other, a small talon-like pick jutted wickedly. A pointed iron cap was fixed to the butt of the haft and had found its way into many an orc's skull. He decided at that moment that if he walked away from this gambit, he would pass the axe to Frumgar. "I should have done it long ago," he murmured to himself.

"Done what?" Éamon asked, the streaks of blood across his forehead becoming more apparent as the sky brightened.

But the creature's song changed then, the deep notes felt as much as heard, and Forthwine could not find the words to answer. The song hammered through him, vibrating everything inside of him and even the ground below him. It seemed the very air he breathed shivered as it passed through his lungs. His skin prickled and his hands trembled, so he gripped his axe even tighter to still them.

"What's happening?" Éamon's harsh whisper belied the fear in his eyes and Forthwine knew the same fear was reflected in his own. He could only shake his head, the words to answer still would not come. "Osric needs to hurry," Éamon stated flatly, his voice quivering as if he were cold.

Forthwine placed one hand against the boulder for support, feeling the same unnerving vibrations even there, and peered over it at the beast as it sang. The Lonely Trees were swaying before it as if a great storm whipped them into a frenzy with strong gusts of wind, but there was not even the hint of a breeze. The song reached a crescendo and instinctively Forthwine gritted his teeth against the onslaught of sound resonating throughout his body and mind, though it did nothing to help. He reached blindly for Éamon and pulled him up by his jerkin to witness what he could not begin to describe. The soil beneath the trees had begun to heave and rise and as the men watched and the song ended, the Lonely Trees broke free from their writhing roots and climbed from the earth that held them.

"No no no no no no no," Éamon repeated his whispered denial over and over as if his words could stop what was happening.

Forthwine rose to his feet, his fingers going slack and losing their grip on his friend's dirty leather jerkin as Éamon sank back down to his knees and leaned his forehead against the cool grey stone. He watched, awestruck, as the trees who now stood tall and free of their earthly bonds began to struggle and writhe, and flinched at the sudden loud crack of wood as they split their trunks into what appeared to be legs. They took a few uncertain steps towards the monster that had awakened them and Forthwine lifted his axe to his chest, gripping it tightly.

"F-Forthwine, he made more. He made more of them. We should go. We need to go." Éamon struggled to control the tremor in his voice and in his limbs as he looked up at Forthwine from his slumped position, one hand feebly tugging at his friend's dark green cloak in an attempt to pull him back into concealment. "This is evil magic. We should go back."

Forthwine nodded absently and looked over his shoulder. _Where was Osric? What was taking him so long?_ He reached down and pulled Éamon to his feet, intending to make a run for the horses, but an all too familiar roar froze him in place. The two men turned slowly to face the beast as it glared at them with its rage-filled, luminous green eyes.

"Axe bringers! Tree cutters! I know your kind," the creature growled and began to stalk slowly towards the men who stood rooted to the spot. The two great yew followed him, one on either side, still unsure on their feet. Their emerald eyes glowed with wrath and trailed wisps of pale green smoke as they walked. "You cut without thought. You rip and you burn and you spread like _rot_ across this land, destroying as you go. Barrarruuum."

Forthwine tore his gaze from the monstrous tree and looked back once more to see Osric riding in their direction. _So close, we were so close._ He met Éamon's desperate gaze and saw him shake his head almost imperceptibly. They both knew now that there would be no escape, not for them.

"Your time is over. The dominion of Man is done. It is our time now. _My_ time. A time of growing, a time of healing," the creature rumbled lowly, its unearthly eyes flaring brighter as it drew nearer. "Hoomm yes. Healing the hurts your kind has inflicted upon creation. Your taint will be washed from the earth and all will be made green again."

Éamon lifted his short sword and axe and the fear fell from him. He leapt atop the boulders, the flame of revenge rekindled and burning in his blood. "It is _you_ who is the taint, _you_ who needs to be washed clean for it was _you_ who slaughtered our people in the night. Their blood is on _your_ hands, foul creature. Get thee gone or feel the bite of my axe like the oversized piece of kindling that you are!"

The trees stopped their slow march and the glow in the monster's eyes flickered out briefly as it frowned in confusion, but the luminosity soon returned. It clenched its fists as a growl low and deep rolled like thunder from its chest, and it stalked forward once more.

Forthwine stared at his friend, mouth agape. "What are you doing? Have you gone mad?" he cried.

Éamon smirked and glanced down at Forthwine. "No sense in us all dying. Go back to your sons. And take him with you," he said with a jerk of his head in Osric's direction. "Now go! Run!" he yelled.

Forthwine looked from the axe in his hands to his companion perched in readiness atop the rocks and made his decision. He climbed onto the boulder beside Éamon, and as the sun rose he relayed his last orders to Osric. He lifted his arms and used the hand signals his warriors normally reserved for battlefield manoeuvres. He ordered him to retreat, to bring warning to those left behind. He saw Osric falter and the horses slow, but then came the gesture of refusal and Osric quickened his pace. Forthwine sent the signals again with more urgency, willing his friend to obey. "Go back, you fool," he muttered. He turned his back on Osric, having not the heart to watch him ride away, and readied his axe.

Rocking from foot to foot in nervous anticipation as the trees hastened towards them, he forced himself to recall the ruined faces and bodies of the men this creature had crushed, the body of the little boy lying amidst twisted vines and roots. With these images, he stoked the boiling anger that churned within his gut. He bellowed his rage to the monstrous trees and heard Éamon do the same.

The creature answered with a thundering cry of its own that carried over the Vales and through the hearts of all who heard it. The faces of the Lonely Trees split and splintered, revealing dark gaping maws that hung open hungrily. Blood-curdling, high pitched shrieks tore from their slack mouths and pierced the air.

Forthwine greatly desired to drop his axe and cover his ears but instead, he glanced to Éamon who nodded his readiness. "To death and ruin."

"To death and ruin," Éamon agreed, and with a cry full of rage and fear, they leapt from the boulders and charged.

They dodged swinging branches, swooping kicks, and ground-shaking blows to wound with axe and sword. Forthwine cared not which tree he cut, as long as the cut was deep. He wanted them to suffer as his people had suffered, wanted them to _hurt_ and to _bleed_ as his people had hurt and bled. His shoulder ached with the force of each swing, his body jolted painfully each time his axe connected with living wood. The two fought valiantly, though victory was impossible.

Forthwine heard his friend cry out and turned to see him knocked into the air by a thick swinging branch. Éamon landed in a motionless heap a good distance away, his sword flung far but his small axe deeply embedded in the leg of an angry, shrieking yew.

"Éamon!" He saw the man stir, his fingers searching the grass for his sword.

Forthwine tried to get to him, tried to run only to be thwarted by roots and vines that shot from the ground to wrap around his legs and catch at his cloak. He hacked at them with his axe, cutting himself free long enough to run a short distance only to be caught again, this time dragged down to his knees. "Éamon, get up! Run!" He twisted around to cut once more at the roots and vines that held him, but his hands stilled as low, rumbling laughter drew nearer. The ground shook with the creature's approach, and a great shadow fell over his heart as he knelt at its feet.

"Do you think to escape, or do you know you have come to die?"

He slowly lifted his eyes to the lumbering beast standing over him. Its mossy beard swung gently as it stepped closer and bent slightly to look down at him. He could see veins of darkness creeping along its limbs, oozing between the cracks of its bark-like hide.

"I do not fear death, monster," he spat. "I will go gladly to the halls of my fathers knowing I have wounded you."

"But you have not wounded me, not enough." The creature's luminous eyes flicked to Éamon's crumpled form. "Will he go gladly as well, or will he fight it?"

Forthwine jerked around to look at his friend. He could see Éamon's left leg bent at an unnatural angle, his face contorted with pain, but his steely blue eyes were fixed with determination on his sword lying in the grass. The yew both loomed over him, watching as the wounded man attempted to crawl away from them, clawing at the ground and pulling himself towards his sword. Forthwine struggled to stand but the roots and vines tightened, keeping him on his knees. He called out once more to his friend, who paused in his efforts and turned his head to meet his gaze.

"You should have run, you idiot. I told you to run," Éamon said. He sighed in resignation and closed his eyes, resting his head on his arms as if he were going to sleep. "Death by tree was certainly not how I intended to go."

Forthwine snorted humourlessly. "Osric's sister will be there to greet you no doubt." He saw the half smile touch Eamon's lips, heard the creaking of the great yew as it lifted its leg, and felt the ground shake as it dropped heavily onto his oldest friend over and over again. He stared in disbelief at the blood soaking into the ground and squeezed his eyes shut to escape the sight of it, but it was not blackness that greeted him when he closed his eyes - it was just more red. His heart pounded and his stomach lurched as he let himself fall forward, burying his face in the grass. He struggled to hold back the rising bile, fought to hold in the screams that so desperately wanted to escape his aching throat.

With his forehead firmly planted on the ground, he could feel in his skull the trembling of the earth as the trees converged on where he lay. He opened his eyes and saw the blades of soft grass and the tiny insects crawling in the soil between them. To those minuscule creatures, the blades of grass must be a forest and he the giant monster who tread indiscriminately upon them. _Were their lives really so different?_

The sound of groaning and creaking filled his ears and panic threatened to consume him, but he refused to meet his death with fear. Instead, he forced his body to relax. He held tightly to his axe and waited...waited for his end to come, but it did not.

The monster reached down and plucked him from the roots and vines that held him, lifting his slack body to dangle in front of its face. Forthwine stared into its large, luminous eyes as it spoke.

"Do you see now? Do you see that your kind cannot win? Do you see your end?"

"I see nothing of the sort. I see only a _tree,"_ he spat in defiance. He straightened his body as best he could and lifted the arm that held his axe, though he felt too weak now to wield it. "And trees can be _cut_!" With a mighty yell and the last of his strength, Forthwine hurled his axe at the monster's face and watched with grim satisfaction as it embedded itself in one large, glowing eye.

The creature roared, its arms flailing as it stumbled backwards, but it did not drop its quarry. Its wounded eye leaked an oily black gore that dripped down into the creature's open mouth as it wailed loud and long. It ripped the offending weapon from its eye and tossed it aside, and for just a moment Forthwine thought that it might toss him aside too. Instead, its grip tightened and green mist poured from its remaining eye as it brought him closer to its face and bellowed its rage.

Forthwine felt laughter like madness bubble up from deep within and gave himself over to it, letting it spill out, laughing like a madman in the face of his own death. He laughed until the monster squeezed the breath from his lungs and he could laugh no more. His eyes bulged and his vision blurred, but it did not blur enough to hide the streams of viscous blackness that oozed from the monster's mouth, flowing quickly down its massive arm towards him. He struggled to free himself as his lungs fought for air, his body refusing to give in. His eyes widened in horror as the blackness reached him, coating his skin like oil and filling his lungs like water. No sound escaped his lips, no breath could penetrate the obstruction, and his struggling became more frantic. He could feel his ribs cracking as the woody hand tightened like a vice and his vision began to darken, the sound of his own bones breaking blending with the creaking and popping of wood. His last thoughts were of his sons, of the grandchild he would never meet, but he was not afraid, not anymore. He had wounded the monster and it was enough.

 **Helpful definitions:**

 _Hîr_ \- Lord

 _Fëa_ \- spirit / soul

 _Béma_ \- the Northmen's name for the Vala Oromë, whom they most revered

 _Éothéod_ \- the Northmen who travelled south to later become the Rohirrim

 **Author's Note:** _I hope you enjoyed this chapter and the thread of connection woven through it. I'd love to hear what you think! Your reviews are always appreciated and your questions are always welcome. I would like to thank my regular readers and those who have added The Time of Growing to your favourites. Thank you for reading!_

 _Did you catch the sneakily inserted Led Zeppelin lyric? If so, well done and congratulations! I'm glad we share this obscure knowledge XD Let me know if you found it, especially if you know the next line;D_


	13. Fruitless Searching and an Absent King

**Mirkwood**

A red sun was rising and the Elvenking turned his face to greet it. The brightening sky bathed him in a pleasant pink glow, though he felt anything but pleasant. He was tired and his body craved sleep. All night he had searched relentlessly for the lumbering monster of his nightmare but had found no trace. Silently he had stalked his own Forest Guard at various outposts along his way, assuring himself that they were unharmed, that the forest was not rising up to devour them, that they would not be swallowed by darkness. He had wanted to speak with them, to warn them, but warn them of what exactly? A nightmare? He did not want them to see the black marks that stained his hands and face and clung to locks of his silvery hair, did not want them to think their King had descended into madness chasing a dream through the trees, so he had remained hidden. Briefly, he had considered turning back but the nightmare pushed him on.

Now as the sun rose, Thranduil found himself more than a six hour's journey from his fortress of wood and stone, perched atop the tallest tree he could find and still searching for any hint that his nightmare had become reality. From his position on the highest branch, he could peer out over the treetops and observe the vast sea of green that made up his domain and still, he saw no sign of anything amiss. He looked at his bandaged hand resting against the tapered trunk. Blood had seeped through the linens sometime during the night though the cuts no longer pained him. Streaks of black were still visible trailing up his wrist to disappear beneath his sleeve, causing his heart to sink whenever he glimpsed them or his blackened fingers. His people would see that he was tainted, there was no hiding it. Would they fear him or would their fierce Silvan loyalty hold sway, driving them to follow him despite his darkness?

It would not be long now before he was missed and guards would be sent to search for him. He sighed, resigned to the fact that he needed to return and face the consequences of his unexpected absence and dreading the explanations that must be given. Thranduil felt a twinge of guilt and cringed inwardly as he envisioned his Steward waiting impatiently to begin the week's Council meeting, only to be informed that the King was nowhere to be found. Astorion's worry would be immeasurable, his wrath terrible, and poor Himdir would likely suffer the brunt of it. He looked northwards towards his home, deciding to return now and spare his Captain of the Royal Guard whatever punishment Astorion could devise for allowing their King to wander into peril. The fault was his own and he must claim it.

Thranduil stroked the craggy bark of the old pine tree with blackened fingertips and whispered a reluctant goodbye. He descended quickly, jumping easily from limb to limb, but as he landed on a low branch the luminous eyes of the root-bound beast suddenly flashed in his mind. The creature's death-like whisper echoed in his ears and a ghost of pain shot through him, the memory of cracking ribs and stolen breath enough to buckle his knees. Thranduil lost his footing, reaching out with a muttered swear to catch hold of something, anything to steady himself, but managed to catch only pine needles. He felt himself falling the short distance to the ground, landing on his back amidst the layer of brown pine needles that covered the rich soil beneath the tree. The air had been knocked from his lungs with the force of impact so he laid there a moment, staring wide-eyed at the spots of sky visible through the forest canopy and waiting for the unpleasant sensation of breathlessness to pass. He sat up with a groan, tossing aside the unhelpful handful of pine needles and inhaling great lungfuls of fresh forest air once he was able. He rose slowly to his feet and leaned a shoulder against the old tree, a shudder running through him as he let himself remember the dream of the previous night...the unearthly glowing green eyes, the twisting and writhing roots of decaying trees, the creeping darkness that poured from the beast's slack jaws. Why were his waking hours still haunted by it? He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the rough bark, breathing in the woody scent and feeling the soft hum of life within the ancient pine.

Something was wrong within the forest, and perhaps without...he could sense it. The Song of the Forest had been silent when he set out last night, the quiet of the trees unnerving, but just before dawn, it had returned. The Song was changed now, unfamiliar, a discordant undertone woven throughout that was even more disturbing than the silence. He could feel a faint vibration in the forest floor as well, like a ripple in a pond, an echo of great power unleashed. Thranduil frowned and sank to one knee, settling his hands on the ground and digging his fingers into the soft earth. He concentrated, listening to the whispers of the trees, feeling their excitement, their exultant expectation of what was coming. _But what is coming?_ He could feel a stirring of unfamiliar power just on the edge of his perception, yet was unable to grasp the elusive answer.

He opened his eyes slowly and rose to his feet, brushing the dirt from his hands and the pine needles from his clothes. A small frown still furrowed his dark brows as he began the long trek back home, his gaze fixed on the ground as his feet took him where he wanted to go. He instinctively knew the way, his attention was not required to get him there, leaving his mind free to wander as he walked. Mentally he prepared himself for his arrival. Astorion would need to be dealt with first. His Steward deserved an explanation and Thranduil did not relish the thought of providing it. The stern-faced _ellon_ was formidable on the best of days, and the Elvenking suspected the tongue lashing he was due to receive would rival any that he had earned as an elfling. Astorion was wise, older than any other Elf Thranduil knew. Perhaps he would have answers the Elvenking did not. He heaved a sigh and glanced at the now dirty bandage wrapping his right hand. He would need to visit Laleithien in the Healing Ward as well, or perhaps have her sent to his chambers. Unease settled heavily on his shoulders as he thought of revealing to her and Astorion the darkness tainting his skin. He clenched his fists and cursed under his breath, speeding his steps with determination. No sense putting it off longer than necessary. He wanted this unpleasantness dealt with as soon as possible so he could put it all behind him and focus on other things. Something was coming, something powerful, and the trees practically shivered in anticipation of its arrival, even the very air had grown thick with it since the dawn. One thought comforted him - if the trees were so eager for whatever approached, then surely it could not be an evil thing. Could it?

OOOOOO

Astorion strode swiftly down the long corridor towards the council chambers, his hands clasped firmly behind his back and his polished leather boots leaving echoing footsteps in his wake. He abhorred tardiness, rarely tolerating any excuses from his subordinates, and yet this morning he found himself to be the one running late. A series of minor inconveniences had been thrust upon him, interfering with his strict schedule and throwing off the timing of every subsequent duty he had that morning. Now he was exasperated, his thunderous expression leaving no doubts as to his mood, and nearly half an hour late for the King's weekly council meeting. He found himself almost wishing for that know-it-all Seldir to comment on his lateness. His annoyance needed an outlet, and the infuriating scholar would make a fine target. Astorion lowered his chin and smirked in anticipation.

Remembering a forgotten detail, he halted abruptly before rounding the bend that would bring the doors of the council chamber into view and reached inside his robe to retrieve a thin golden circlet from an inner pocket. Once it was carefully arranged atop his head, he continued on his way. Normally he shunned jewellery and unnecessary adornments, but Thranduil had insisted he at least wear _something_ to indicate his high status as Steward and First Counsellor, so he had graciously agreed to wear _something_ only during council meetings or other affairs of state. Much to Thranduil's dismay, the _something_ Astorion had chosen was the plainest of circlets instead of one of the many other more elaborate designs the King had provided for him. In this and many other ways, Astorion was the King's opposite. His dark eyes and nearly ebony hair were a decided contrast to Thranduil's icy fairness whenever he took his place at the King's side; his fine yet simple attire was never in any danger of overshadowing the Elvenking's stunning raiment; his stern and steady character was often tested by Thranduil's unpredictable and sometimes volatile nature, and yet despite these differences, or perhaps because of them, the pair worked together harmoniously.

As Astorion drew nearer to the tall arched doorway at the end of the corridor, he smoothed the front of his forest green tunic and adjusted the sleeves of the open russet robe he wore over it. At his nod, the armoured guards standing with pikes crossed stood to attention and swept the doors open for him to enter. He strode confidently into the chamber, prepared to explain his tardiness to the King, but Thranduil's seat at the head of the table was still empty. He heard the doors shut behind him and quirked an elegant eyebrow at the scene before him.

The eight other Counsellors were gathered around the rectangular mahogany table, some in their usual seats, some standing to converse. Astorion's scribe Magoldir was hunched over his ledger at a too-small desk in the corner, his large form more suited to swinging a sword than holding a quill, and a few servants were shuffling about the chamber arranging refreshments and refilling teacups. All eyes turned to him and everyone grew still as Astorion entered, the momentary silence broken only when the room's occupants had ascertained that he was not the King.

He wondered at Thranduil's absence, dubiously eyeing the two chairs at the head of the table. Thranduil's was grand and intricately carved, his own, to the right of the King's, was much plainer and exactly like the other eight. Nodding politely to his peers and murmuring greetings as he went, Astorion strolled towards his seat, his gaze lingering on the large tapestry hanging on the wall behind the King's chair. It had been lovingly woven by the former Queen, Thranduil's mother Berenil, and depicted a white stag** standing proudly beneath the wide-spreading branches of a tall oak. As was his habit and in remembrance of the much loved and gentle Queen, Astorion bowed his head slightly and touched his heart as he passed beneath the tapestry to take his place at the table's head.

He stood with his fingertips resting lightly on the polished mahogany surface, cooly observing everyone in the room. Magoldir hurried over with a stack of parchment, placing it on the table ready for his perusal. "Where is the King?" the Steward asked no one in particular as he pulled the stack closer and began flipping through the pages, making sure that the documents requiring Thranduil's attention were placed in order or priority.

Seldir cleared his throat, drawing Astorion's gaze from the paperwork he found infinitely more interesting than the Counsellor sitting a few seats away with his nose in a book. "Do you know of our King's whereabouts, Seldir, or do you perhaps require a glass of water?"

The golden-haired Lord did not bother to look up from his reading. "Neither. I do, however, know that the King has not left his chambers this morning, nor has he ordered breakfast brought to him." He turned the page slowly. "Perhaps it is just as well. His Majesty's own tardiness may leave him little opportunity to complain of yours," he drawled. His eyes never left the book, but his lips curved into a smug smirk.

Astorion frowned and opened his mouth to retort but much to his disappointment was silenced by a gentle hand and a knowing look. Laleithien had come to stand beside him with her hand on his arm and humour lighting her hazel eyes. She was still in her black healer's robes, having come directly from overseeing her patients, and her copper hair was pulled into a tight braid draped over one shoulder, though a few tendrils had attempted to escape and curled enticingly about her face and neck.

"Good morning, my Lord." She gave him a warm smile and his arm an affectionate squeeze. "Perhaps while we wait for His Majesty we can begin taking care of the business that does not require his immediate attention, for I have several wounded Forest Guards that do require mine." She patted his arm and gracefully lowered herself into the seat on his right, blinking up at him expectantly.

Astorion allowed himself a moment to stare at her before sinking into his own high backed chair and waiting for the other Counsellors to take their places. "Very well then. But before we begin, I must ask you, Lord Tarphen, to please reiterate to all household staff under your direction that their concerns should be addressed to you as their head and not to me, especially first thing in the morning. And Lord Noenor, if you would be so kind as to remind the members of the Forest Guard that complaints about the length of their new rotations should be made to you as their commanding officer and not to me, especially first thing in the morning. I do not enjoy disruptions to my schedule."

"Especially first thing in the morning," Laleithian murmured with a wink and nudged his knee under the table. Astorion managed to keep a straight face, but his eyes flicked in her direction as he tapped the stack of parchment on the table, aligning it just so.

"Of course, my Lord. I will speak to them at the staff meeting this afternoon," Lord Tarphen said, scribbling a reminder in his ever-present red book.

Lord Noenor nodded his agreement. "Give me the names of those who complained and I will make sure they remember just who schedules their rotations," he assured, the glint in his eye promising an especially unpleasant punishment for the complainants.

The Steward grinned, satisfied. "Thank you, my Lords. Now. First on the docket: expenditures." Magoldir bustled around the table, collecting expense reports from each Counsellor. "Seldir, I assume you once again have none to report." He looked to Seldir to see him nod his assent, then held out his hand to accept the reports from Magoldir. He was glancing over them when the doors to the council chamber swung open abruptly, drawing the eyes of all present.

He had been expecting the King in all his glory to be the one striding into the room, but instead there stood a rather distressed looking Captain of the Royal Guard."Himdir?" Astorion blurted in surprise. "Is there a problem?" A blossom of worry began to take root in his mind. Himdir was rarely away from the King, taking his duty of protection so seriously that many wondered if the Captain ever rested at all.

"Forgive the interruption, my Lords, my Ladies," the Captain said with a bow. "May I have a word with you please, Lord Astorion? In private, if I may."

"Yes, of course," he murmured, rising from his seat and feeling quite unsettled by a growing sense of unease. "Come."

He motioned for the Captain to follow and strode quickly over to the tapestry, moving it aside and leading him through a door hidden behind. Inside was the King's private meeting room, small but sumptuously appointed with a large desk, two comfortable chairs, and a sofa scattered with plump cushions. Many hours he had spent here discussing over wine council meetings and matters of the realm with Thranduil. Though it was currently unoccupied, the chamber was still ready for use with lamps lit and wine decanted and awaiting the King's enjoyment.

Astorion spun to face Himdir as soon as the door was closed. "What has happened? Where is the King?" he demanded.

"I...I'm not sure." The Captain's eyes widened at his own admission. He dreaded this _ellon's_ wrath as much as the King's and was fairly certain that Thranduil had learned all he knew of intimidation from him. Himdir swallowed hard and prepared himself to receive Astorion's anger.

"What do you mean you're not sure?" the Steward said lowly. "You're not sure what has happened, or you're not sure of the King's whereabouts?" His dark eyes bored into the Captain's, pinning the warrior to the spot.

"Both, my Lord. I mean...neither. I…"

Astorion held up a hand, interrupting the Captain's rambling. "One moment. Are you telling me the King is missing?" His heart sank when Himdir nodded his confirmation, though his rational mind began running through the procedures he must follow in this situation. He could not help the shroud of fear that descended slowly upon him.

Astorion had served Oropher for centuries before Thranduil was born, ever since the Sinda Lord had arrived with his people from Beleriand. He was there when the Silvan Elves had chosen to make Oropher their King. He was there when Thranduil was born, had tutored him as an elfling, comforted him after his mother's passing, and disciplined him whenever necessary. He could so clearly remember his last words to Oropher, standing in this very room the morning the army marched for the Last Alliance, swearing the oath that was asked of him, swearing to protect his Prince and serve him faithfully should Thranduil return from the War alone. He had done as he was bound, had guided Thranduil throughout his life, from Prince to King, and loved him as he would his own flesh and blood. _Thranduil cannot be missing. There must be a reasonable explanation._

Astorion's dark brows drew together in a disbelieving frown and he began to pace, clasping his hands behind his back as was his wont when he was agitated. His frown grew deeper when he recalled that he himself was next in the line of succession should the worst happen. He paused mid-stride, a horror-stricken look upon his face, and shook the unpleasant thought from his mind. "Explain this, Himdir. From the beginning. Be quick," he commanded and began pacing once more.

The Captain cleared his throat and drew himself up straighter. "Last night there was a...disturbance in the King's chambers."

"What kind of disturbance?"

"I heard the King shout, my Lord, and a loud crash...glass breaking." Astorion stopped in his tracks and looked to Himdir, his head tilted in question. "I knocked and called out to him, but he did not answer, so I summoned every guard on duty in the royal wing to my position and we entered the King's chambers unbidden. We found nothing unusual, no sign of intruders, but the King had shut himself in his washroom."

"And why did the King shut himself in his washroom?" Astorion moved slowly to plant himself before Himdir, towering over the shorter Elf and awaiting his explanation with arms folded across his broad chest.

Himdir felt suddenly as if he were an elfling again, waiting anxiously for his father to dole out punishment for whatever mischief he had been unfortunate enough to get caught perpetrating. He swallowed hard. "When I questioned the King he said he had broken a mirror in anger."

"Broken a mirror in anger," the Steward repeated flatly. "Why was he angry? Was anyone with him?"

"No, my Lord, no one had entered his chambers. I saw no signs of anyone else within. His Majesty is not in the habit of...er... _entertaining_ guests in his chambers. I do not know why he was angry. He was not forthcoming with that information. He ordered us away, and his tone of voice did not invite questions. I wanted to ask but instead, I obeyed."

"And where is he now?" Astorion took another step closer.

"He is….gone. Perhaps into the forest. I...I do not know." Himdir cringed inwardly but stood unflinchingly before the flame of anger in the Steward's eyes. "He must have exited from his balcony because he did not use the door."

"Gone you say. The King is _gone."_ Astorion began to circle slowly around the Captain as a predator would its prey, his anger growing. He stopped before the warrior and leaned in close, taking full advantage of his taller frame. "It is your job to guard him, to ensure his safety, and you stand before me now, telling me that he is _gone?"_

Only centuries of the most rigorous training kept him from flinching when the Steward's voice suddenly increased in volume, his enraged face only inches from Himdir's own. "Yes, my Lord."

Astorion huffed indignantly and stalked over to the empty fireplace, staring down at the cold hearth. "Am I correct in assuming that you have at least sent guards out into the forest to locate His Majesty?"

"Yes, my Lord. Guards were also sent to search the palace. All was done as discreetly as possible."

"How long ago?"

"Shortly after sunrise, my Lord. When His Majesty failed to answer Galion's knocks this morning, he and I entered the royal chambers and found them empty. The washroom mirror was indeed broken, and there was blood…"

"What?" Astorion interrupted and whipped his head round to gape incredulously at the Captain.

Himdir could see that he was making every effort to remain calm, and was very thankful for the self-control that kept Astorion's hands gripped behind his back and not locked around Himdir's neck.

"There were splatters of blood, yes, but there were also linens that had been ripped into strips, suggesting the King had injured himself on the glass and attempted to bandage it," Himdir explained hurriedly. "The amount of blood was not indicative of a major injury, my Lord, and he did not seem to be in danger when last I spoke to him."

Astorion exhaled the breath he had inadvertently been holding. Laleithien had not mentioned Thranduil's presence in the infirmary so he could only assume the King had not bothered to present himself for treatment.

"And why, may I ask, did you wait more than three hours to inform me of this?"

"I did not wish to cause you undue worry, my Lord. I thought the King would return in time for his Council, that perhaps he wished to be alone in the forest…"

"Alone in the forest with the spiders and the orcs, Himdir? Eryn Galen is not as safe as it once was. He cannot be allowed to roam as he pleases without telling anyone of his intentions!" Astorion's anger was now directed not only at Himdir, but also at Thranduil and he began to pace furiously once more. "Thranduil is the King, not an elfling, and he cannot be permitted to act like one. He has responsibilities!" He shook his head, muttering to himself. "I am sure I taught him better than this."

Himdir's mouth dropped open in surprise hearing the Steward speak so about the Elvenking.

"Very well." Astorion grew still, his mind made up and resolution in his eyes. "If your guards are so incompetent as to _lose_ the King of Eryn Galen then I will find him myself." He strode past Himdir without looking back.

"My Lord…" the Captain began, but the Steward did not pause.

Astorion threw open the door to the study and roughly shoved aside the tapestry blocking his way. "Proceed without me," he ordered the Counsel, not even glancing to those assembled around the table. He felt their questioning eyes upon him, especially those of Leleithien, but ignored their concerned inquiries and stormed past them. Himdir rushed to open the door to the council chamber, holding it wide for the Counsellor to pass through.

Galion waited nervously outside and was nearly bowled over by Astorion's hurried exit. "Your pardon, my Lord," he said, bowing slightly and backing out of the Steward's path.

Astorion glared at him in surprise. "Galion," he greeted with a nod as he snatched the golden circlet from his head and shed his russet robe. He tossed them both to the startled butler and continued down the vaulted corridor with determined strides.

Galion fumbled the circlet, nearly dropping it, and bundled the heavy silk robe into his arms. "My Lord?" he called, jogging to keep up with Astorion's quick pace. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Fetch my sword and meet me in the King's chamber. Do not delay!"

"Yes, my Lord, at once." Galion sped off in the direction of the Steward's own chambers, attempting to neatly fold the long rust-coloured robe as he went.

Himdir followed Astorion, but at a safe distance so as to avoid unnecessary exposure to the Steward's wrath. He had not witnessed him this angry in many a year and did not envy Thranduil the task of explaining his unannounced departure. Not for the first time this morning he sent up a prayer to the Valar for the King's safety, thus ensuring his own, for if any harm had come to the King then Astorion would surely make him pay dearly, may even end his earthly existence, though Himdir would take any punishment he was given for the endangerment of his charge.

"Thranduil, I swear by the stars you had better have a good explanation for this," Astorion muttered to himself and turned sharply down the corridor that would lead eventually to the royal wing. Himdir silently echoed the sentiment.

OOOOOO

Astorion stood staring at the mess in Thranduil's washroom, unsure what to think. The mirror's empty gilded frame still hung above the washstand but its glass now littered the area. There was blood, as Himdir had said, splattering the white marble basin and the floor. A blood-soaked linen cloth lay discarded on the washstand beside two of the King's elaborate rings and a pile of his clothing lay abandoned near the doorway.

"What have you done, you foolish boy?" he whispered to himself, shaking his head as he left the washroom.

He began to wander through Thranduil's chamber while he waited for Galion to arrive with his sword and for Himdir to gather reports from his guards. His keen eyes searched for any clue as to the King's whereabouts while, without thought, he righted any object he came across that struck him as out of place or untidy. He passed by the large four-poster bed and paused mid-stride before backtracking to stand beside it. It did not appear to have been slept in, though the bedclothes were slightly rumpled as if Thranduil had lain upon it. He frowned in concern and bent to smooth the wrinkles from the dark green coverlet. A long forgotten memory flooded his mind, a memory of tucking a very similar green coverlet snugly around the small body of a young Prince whose little voice was begging for just one more story about a dragon. Astorion straightened, his fingers trailing over the velvety bedding as he slowly backed away, his mind momentarily clouded with the past.

He turned and continued to survey the room, his gaze finally settling on the elaborately carved weapons cabinet. A small smile began as his fingers traced over the tree inlaid into the left door, the tree he himself had carved into the cabinet. His eyes flicked to the matching tree on the opposite door and he hesitantly laid the palm of his other hand atop it, the small smile turning sad.

"Oropher," Astorion murmured. He remembered well the joy in Oropher's eyes as the King had worked on the gift for his unborn child, the way he had sat for hours in the small woodcarver's shack hunched over the carving of this tree, heedless of the thin curls of wood in his hair and the dusting of sawdust on his fine robes. "I will find him," he vowed, and carefully opened the doors of the cabinet to observe the contents within. His eyes narrowed and a wry grin curled his lips as he took note of the missing items.

A breathless Galion pushed open the heavy oaken door to the King's chambers, pausing in the doorway before closing it behind him. He spotted Astorion and rushed over with the Steward's sword in its scabbard and a cloak draped over one arm. "Forgive me, my Lord, I came as quickly as I could. I was waylaid by Lord Tarphen. He was asking questions."

Astorion snorted and closed the doors to the cabinet. He accepted the sword, strapping it around his waist and eyeing the butler. "Of course he was. And what did you tell him?"

"I told him that I was not a member of his staff to be bullied or intimidated, that I answer only to the King and if he had any questions as to my current duty, then he could ask them of His Majesty. I also told him where he could shove that damned red book he kept waving in my face." Galion looked rather pleased with himself.

Astorion could not help but chuckle. Many a fool had mistaken the unassuming Silvan's gentle demeanour for weakness, his reticence for submission, and had discovered the hard way the mettle he was made of. Thranduil had chosen Galion for good reason; few could remain so unbending before the force that was the Elvenking's personality.

"I took the liberty of bringing a cloak for you, my Lord. I assumed you would be going to fetch the King." The butler held open the greenish-grey cloak, waiting for Astorion to step into it.

"Thank you, Galion, but I must await Himdir's report before I go." He took the cloak and strolled over to the open balcony doors. "You may leave if you wish. I am sure you have other business to attend to."

Astorion stepped out onto the balcony, the mid-morning sun glinting off his ebony hair. He draped the cloak neatly over the balustrade and stood with his arms crossed looking out over the forest.

"I think I will attend to the washroom," he heard Galion say from somewhere behind him. "I would rather do it myself than risk the gossip of meddling maids."

"Wise decision," Astorion concurred, glancing over his shoulder to see Galion's lithe frame leaned against the wall, his eyes closed and face tilted to the sun.

Galion opened one eye and smirked. "Yes, well, I am known for my wisdom." A small frown furrowed his brow and he pushed himself from the wall, walking slowly to stand beside the much taller Steward. "I feel better knowing you are in control of the situation, my Lord, but I am worried. Do you think he is...safe?"

Astorion remained silent, thinking. His eyes were fixed on the forest though he saw not a single tree. He did not answer immediately and instead stood staring out over the forest for so long that his vision blurred, softening everything to various shades of greens and browns with a wisp of blue above. "Yes, I think he is safe. For now. I think the forest will protect him as best it can. I think we would feel it if...if the connection was severed." He unfolded his arms and leaned forward to grip the railing, still staring into the sea of green before him.

"Himdir comes, my Lord. I will leave you to your privacy." Galion bowed slightly and left the balcony as the Captain entered, but Astorion never looked away from the forest.

"My Lord, I have had the reports from the ten guards I sent out. They found nothing. Not a trace," the Captain reluctantly reported.

"Of course they didn't," Astorion murmured, blinking rapidly to refocus his vision. He turned to the Captain beside him. "If Thranduil wishes to remain hidden, then the forest will hide him, Himdir. He is the Elvenking. The forest is his." He reached for his cloak and settled it around his shoulders, fastening the clasp and pulling his long hair from beneath it. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword as he observed the uneasy Elf before him. "If any harm has come to him, you will answer to me," he said quietly.

Himdir nodded once in understanding and bowed low. "Yes, my Lord." He watched as Astorion swept past him and back inside the King's chambers, not quite daring to move since he had not yet been dismissed. Moments later, the Steward returned carrying the King's bow and a quiver full of arrows.

"String this," Astorion ordered, shoving the bow into Himdir's hands. He fixed the quiver to his back, tutting as his fingers fumbled with the unfamiliar buckle, then strode towards the tree that grew nearest the balcony. He hopped up onto the balustrade and held his hand out for the bow. Himdir handed it over, concern printed clearly upon his features.

"My Lord, what are you doing?"

"I thought that was obvious, Captain." Astorion looked down at the confused Elf from his high perch. "I am going to find the King."

"But…there was no trace. How will you…"

Astorion squatted, balancing on the balls of his feet and bringing his face closer to Himdir's. "The difference between your guards and me, Himdir, is that I know where to look." He paused a moment and glanced back at the tree. "If the worst should happen and neither of us returns, Lord Brannam will know what to do. He is the chieftain of the Silvan clans, it is up to him to choose who will lead. Go to him first."

"You should not say such things, my Lord, please…"

"These things must be said. Now go, guard the door as if the King was within his chambers. We will return this way if we are able." He gripped Himdir's shoulder, giving him half a smile as he stood, and took a running leap into the same tree Thranduil had used the night before.

 **Tbc...**

 **OOOOOO**

 _Ellon -_ male Elf

 _ **A/N:**_ _So poor Thranduil found no trace of the monstrous creature that haunted his dreams, only the echoes of a strange power newly awakened...a power that has woven itself into the song of his beloved forest and left him with more questions. What is coming, and why are the trees so eager to greet it? You'll find out soon, Thranduil, don't worry. Well, actually, maybe you should worry..._

 _And you should definitely worry about Astorion getting hold of you! That Elf is NOT pleased. I'm sure he'll have a thing or three to say about Kings who run off unguarded and unannounced to go gallivanting through the woods at all hours of the night! Tsk tsk. (I'm gonna have to channel my mother on a night when I missed curfew for that scene, methinks.)_

 _Thanks for reading, and I hope you're enjoying the story so far! I appreciate all of you who have read, reviewed, and added this story to your favourites. Thank you, all 3_

 _(If you've had the pleasure of reading_ _ **TheRealFloranocturna'**_ _s story_ _ **The Secret of the Forest**_ _, you may have a noticed my little homage to it buried within this chapter. If you haven't read it yet, I highly recommend it!)_


	14. Leave-taking and Letting Go

**A/N** : _Please note that sentences in italics within conversations are in the speaker's native language. Also, I'd like to thank_ _ **Slyshy21**_ _for recently favouriting this story and_ _ **margie-me**_ _for favouriting and reviewing :D_

 **Vales of the Anduin**

"You did what _?_ " Celegon's vehement demand made Gilorn feel like flinching, but he refrained and stood firm.

"I forgave him _,"_ he calmly repeated.

Celegon raked his fingers roughly through his long hair, mussing the usually meticulous warden's braids he wore along the sides. He was bewildered beyond words at his brother's endless ability to do the inconceivable. "Gilorn…"

"I know what you would say, but we were meant to be here, Celegon. We were meant to meet these _edain_ when we did. Why else would the Lady insist we travel through the Vales? She knew. She has seen it," Gilorn argued passionately. "It is all connected. All of it! Us, our journey, these _edain_ , _hír_ Fangorn. All of it!"

Celegon shook his head, still too livid to speak without harsh words he would regret. He bent and snatched up his quiver, fixing it to his back and fastening the buckle.

"What are you doing _?_ " Gilorn asked warily.

"You may wish to stay in this Valar forsaken camp, but I do not. You may wish to forgive this...this _horse lord_ , but I do not. I am leaving." Celegon slung his satchel over his shoulder and picked up his bow.

"But...where will you go _?_ " Gilorn watched with a small frown creasing his brow as his brother strung his bow.

Celegon glanced up at his brother's worried expression and sighed. "Not far, do not worry. To the tree line just there _,"_ he inclined his head towards the dark woods. "I will keep watch. I do not trust these _edain_ to do it." He gripped Gilorn's shoulder and gave him a grin that was not at all reassuring. "Fear not, little brother. I will still be within shooting distance." Celegon wrapped his grey cloak around himself and gave one last scowl in Marhwini's direction before stalking off into the darkness.

Gilorn stood watching his brother's retreating form until it completely melded into the shadows, apprehension niggling at his heart. He did not like the idea of Celegon alone in the dark with so many dangers lurking in the night and debated on following, but the loud clearing of a throat roused him from his thoughts. He turned to find Fram behind him, along with Frumgar and a quite beautiful, and clearly pregnant, young woman standing between them.

Gilorn could not help but stare at the girl. He could not recall the last time he had seen a pregnant female and he found her fascinating. Elven pregnancies were rare, and he had never known personally any _elleth_ while she had been with child. He found himself greatly desiring to touch her rounded stomach and attempt to connect with the new life within but stifled the urge to do so.

"If you don't mind, my brother wishes to introduce you to his wife. She greatly desired to meet the one who saved her husband's life," Frumgar said, nodding towards the young woman. She held a large flagon of mead and was looking up at Gilorn shyly. "I understand if it's not a good time. My grandfather…"

"No, no, worry not," Gilorn murmured with a distracted wave of his hand. He tore his eyes from the girl and looked at Fram, who was beaming proudly. To the Elf, the couple looked barely out of their adolescence, yet they were wedded and expecting a child. The ways of Men were strange indeed.

Oblivious to the Elf's astonishment, Fram placed his hand on the small of his wife's back and urged her gently forward. " _This is Metta, my wife. Metta, this is Gilorn Angolion. He shot that orc dead in the eye from a distance you wouldn't believe!"_ The girl's eyes widened as she pushed a lock of curly, blonde hair behind her ear.

Frumgar translated his brother's words with humour while Gilorn nodded politely. Metta extended her hand to the Elf for a handshake but instead of taking it, he gently grasped her fingers and brought her knuckles to his lips for a light kiss. "My lady Metta, it is an honour to meet you." Her cheeks pinkened and she smiled widely, glancing over to her husband with a giggle.

Fram raised an eyebrow at the display. " _Is this_ _an Elvish custom_?" he whispered to his brother.

Frumgar shrugged and grinned mischievously, whispering back loudly, " _I don't know._ _Do you want me to ask him?"_

Metta shot them both a look learned from her mother that silenced the pair immediately. She stepped towards Gilorn, holding the flagon of mead out for him to take. " _This is for you, offered in friendship and gratitude. You have given me my husband's life this day, something I value more than my own, and you have given this child its father." She lovingly rubbed her rounded belly with one hand and smiled softly thinking of the babe within, "For this, we are in your debt. I have nothing of value to offer you as a reward, but whatever you ask I will give it with gladness."_ She looked up at him earnestly, tears brimming in her eyes.

Gilorn slowly took the flagon from her hands, staring thoughtfully into its depths while listening to Frumgar repeat her words. She waited and watched him expectantly. Gilorn met her tear-filled gaze with a sad smile. "My lady, you owe me nothing. It eases my heart to know that I have brought you joy. That is reward enough." He drank of the mead then, finding it both overly sweet and overly harsh, but managed to swallow it down without grimacing.

Her lips curved with happiness and a slow tear rolled down her cheek when she heard Frumgar translate. Fram draped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close and leaving a kiss atop her head.

The youngsters' obvious love for one another sent a warmth spreading through Gilorn's chest, a warmth that mingled with the sharp sadness of knowing these bright sparks of life would fade all too quickly while his own would go on indefinitely. His eyes were drawn once again to Metta's pregnant belly, and it did not go unnoticed.

" _Would you like to touch it? You can if you want. Sometimes you can feel the baby move,"_ she offered and saw hopeful surprise light the Elf's face when her words were translated.

"Are you sure _?"_ he asked, glancing to Fram _._ Fram's lips twitched with amusement and he nodded towards his unborn child. Metta took Gilorn's hand and placed it on her belly, moving it around until she found just the right spot under her ribs on her left side.

" _Here. This is the head,"_ she said, lightly pressing Gilorn's hand so he could feel the hard, round lump beneath. His eyes crinkled with delight and a slow smile began to form. Metta moved his hand again down lower towards her navel and he could feel a smaller, sharper shape. " _And this is..a knee I think, or maybe an elbow."_ She pressed his hand again and the baby twitched at the disturbance, rolling into a new position. Metta laughed at the sheer wonderment on the Elf's face and Gilorn could not help but join her.

"In all my long years never have I experienced such a thing. I thank you, truly," he said, reluctantly withdrawing his hand. "Your son is healthy, I can feel it, and happy. He senses your love and rejoices in it."

" _Son?"_ Fram asked excitedly as soon as Frumgar had finished relaying the Elf's words.

"Yes, a son. I could feel clearly his strong spirit within you," he said, nodding to Metta's belly. The couple beamed at each other.

" _Do you hear that, Frumgar? I shall have a son!"_ Fram exclaimed, slapping his brother hard on the back. Frumgar grunted and Metta gave her beloved an indulgent smile. He grasped her face within his hands and placed a hard kiss on her lips. " _Of course I would have loved a daughter just as much."_

" _Of course."_ Metta rolled her eyes and looked thoughtfully back to Gilorn. She chewed her thumbnail nervously for a moment before throwing her arms around his waist and squeezing him tightly. "Thank you," she whispered in uncertain Westron.

Gilorn was taken aback, unaccustomed as he was to displays of female affection. He stood very still looking down at the golden blonde head resting against his heart, his hands hovering at his sides. He could feel every curve of her feminine form pressed against him, the firmness of her pregnant belly, the strength in her slender arms as she clung to him, and he found the sensations not at all unpleasant. He looked helplessly to Fram, slightly panicked and unsure where to put his hands or of the propriety of hugging another man's wife. He found no help in the smirking young man, so settled for patting her awkwardly on the back. "There, there. All is well," he offered lamely.

Metta finally released the Elf and backed away, giving him a sheepish grin and blushing fiercely. She turned then to her husband and kissed him soundly, murmuring quiet words of love, and gave Frumgar a quick peck on his whiskered cheek before hurrying off to join a group of young women waiting impatiently in the distance.

"She's going to be the envy of every female here, mark my words," Frumgar said wryly as he watched the women surround Metta and walk away, chatting animatedly and casting longing glances back at the tall Elf. The tips of Gilorn's ears turned pink. He busied himself straightening his already perfectly aligned tunic and took another gulp of mead.

" _What did you say?"_ Fram asked, suspicious of his brother's smirk and the Elf's obvious discomfort.

" _Nothing,"_ Frumgar strolled casually away to get his own flagon of mead, followed closely by a persistently questioning Fram.

Gilorn shook his head to clear his mind from strange thoughts of mortal women and settled down comfortably in front of the fire, tossing one end of his cloak around his shoulders. He considered emptying the flagon of mead into the grass but decided that would be too rude and ungrateful. He finished it off quickly instead, wrinkling his nose and forcing it down. Setting it aside with a grimace, he drew his knees up before him and wrapped his arms around them. His eyes and thoughts lifted to the stars and he let his mind wander as he listened to the crackling fire and far off voices, slipping into a sort of waking reverie but not quite walking the paths of dreams. He was disturbed by the sound of heavy footsteps drawing nearer and knew it was Marhwini approaching. A hot flash of anger sparked through his calmness, but he ignored it, choosing instead to hear whatever the man had to say.

"May I sit?" the old man's deep voice quietly inquired, unsure of the welcome he would receive.

Gilorn did not speak but motioned for him to sit. Marhwini lowered himself slowly to the spot of grass on the Elf's right, sloshing a bit of mead onto his lap in the process. He swore under his breath and brushed himself off as best he could, much to the amusement of the Elf beside him. They sat in silence, the Elf watching the stars and the man watching the flames.

"I am truly sorry," Marhwini said, his words slightly slurred from drink.

Gilorn scrutinised the old man for a moment before looking skywards once more. "I am sure you are."

"Where is your brother?"

"In the forest, keeping watch," Gilorn replied. "You are safer this way."

Marhwini was unsure whether that meant he was safer because the Elf kept watch or if he was safer because the Elf was not near. Probably both. "I see you met my granddaughter," he shifted his weight to make himself more comfortable, though comfort was fleeting when sitting beside the icy Elf. "Fram tells me you say she'll give him a son."

"Yes."

The old man fidgeted with his cup and took a long drink, attempting to drown the anxiety burrowing into his gut. He wanted to question the Elf's certainty about the child, but thought better of it, assuming some sort of strange Elvish magic was involved. He was startled when the Elf turned to him abruptly, piercing him with those bright blue eyes.

"Have you come to trade pleasantries, or have you something of importance to say? For I am in no mood for petty conversation," Gilorn snapped and did not miss the nearly imperceptible flinch in the man's face.

"Aye, there is something I wish to say," the old man sighed and looked down at the flagon he held too tightly in his hands. He examined the rough, calloused palms, the grubby nails, the many scars that marked many battles, the unkempt grey hair hanging down his chest and, for the first time in his life, he felt inferior to another being.

"Then speak," the Elf commanded.

Marhwini drew in a deep breath, steeling himself for what he had to say. "I know you are troubled by the loss of young Edgard. I saw you when Gerolt laid his son at Eda's feet, and I saw you when they laid his body on the pyre. I know you blame yourself, but the fault is not yours." He watched the Elf stiffen at his words, all expression falling from that too-fair face. "Yes, Edgard died, but Fram still lives and he lives because of you. It seems you had forgotten that earlier today, so I thought you needed reminding." He glanced to his left to find the Elf staring beyond him to where his grandsons stood conversing. Marhwini heaved a great sigh and returned his eyes to his lap. "I needed reminding too. It was wrong of me to doubt you, to accuse you, but you must understand. You must understand the responsibility I have to protect what's left of my people, to bring them to safety. This...Ent. It is beyond my ability to comprehend. I have seen many wars and the mindless destruction of Men, but to see the very earth itself rise up against us…" he shook his head in disbelief. "What am I supposed to think of that? How do I protect them from such a thing?" He looked to the Elf, hoping for an answer.

"You cannot," Gilorn said simply. "It should not have happened, and I do not know why it did. As I said, Ents are gentle creatures. They have walked this earth since its beginning and have never harmed anyone or anything that did not harm them first. They are not evil, nor are they monsters to be feared. They love their trees above all else, protecting them and nurturing them, and rarely leave their forest. _Hír_ Fangorn, he...suffered a great loss, retreating from the world. For long years I hoped that he would awaken. I attempted to call him back many times over the last millennia, but I failed. _We_ failed. It has been more than a century since I attempted it last. I suppose I gave up, and with the threat to our borders...no one has left the golden wood in many years. Until recently." He visibly shook himself from his memories and met the curious brown eyes of the old man. "I am determined to discover why this happened, to find _hír_ Fangorn and speak with him. It will not bring back the lives lost, but perhaps it will prevent the loss of more."

Marhwini grunted and downed the last of his mead. He had a fair idea of how he could prevent the loss of more lives caused by these... _Ents_. "There are more of them then," he muttered, almost as if to himself.

"Yes, there are more, though they remain in their forest."

"Forthwine, my son, he has followed this...Fangorn...across the river two days ago. I don't know if he still lives, if he'll return to me. Such losses are not easily forgiven." Marhwini met the eyes of the expectant Elf. "I have no love for these Ents and do not wish to settle my people anywhere near them. Are there safer lands to the south, lands not occupied by evil creatures or evil Men?"

Gilorn considered the man's words, sensing anger and resentment along with the cold calculation of a born leader. "Aye, there are safer lands," he said slowly, "though the Men of Gondor deem them to be in their possession. They are also sparsely populated by tribes of _Drúedain..._ wildmen, who are unfriendly and dangerous, though small in number and not as well armed or organised as your people."

"We have had dealings with the men of Gondor before." Marhwini stared thoughtfully into the fire, trying to recall the name of Gondor's current king. "Where are these lands?"

"South of here and still on the western shore. More than a week of travel, at least, at your current pace. You will pass both Lothlórien and the forest of Fangorn, and will need to ford the Limlight, though it is a river with a gentle flow. You should have little trouble. The lands you seek lie beyond."

"It is good to know that the end is near, that safety and the green pastures of home are within our reach." Marhwini sighed.

"You will still have to deal with the _Drúedain,"_ Gilorn reminded.

"And we will. We have encountered far worse than scatterings of wildmen." Marhwini gave the Elf a confident grin, but it soon melted away into a thoughtful frown. "And the forest of Fangorn is home to these...Ents?"

Gilorn felt a coldness touch his heart upon seeing the vengeful glint in the man's dark eyes. "Aye, it is, and I would bid you not to enter. It would be unsafe and unwise," he warned. "The same can be said of the Golden Wood. I cannot guarantee your safety should you decide to breach our borders, especially with such numbers of armed men."

The old man chuckled. "Don't worry, we won't be visiting your forest. I think we've had enough of Elves and their forests." Marhwini paled when he realised what he had said and to whom he had said it. He held up his hands in apology. "I did not mean to say...I meant…"

Gilorn snorted and shook his head, waving a hand in dismissal. "I know what you meant, and I think I can safely say the feeling is mutual," he smirked.

Marhwini chuckled nervously, glad the earlier tension seemed somewhat lessened with the jest. "Care for another drink?" he asked with a pointed look at the Elf's empty flagon.

"No! Definitely not." Gilorn answered firmly, his look of horrified distaste bringing genuine rumbling laughter from the old man at his side.

OOOOOO

The sky was beginning to lighten when Celegon finally returned to the encampment. He found Gilorn stretched out alone near the dying fire staring up at the sky. Celegon squatted beside his brother, resting his arms on his knees. "Did you have a pleasant evening conversing with your horse lord?"

Gilorn's eyes remained fixed on the bright stars, taking in as much of their beauty as he could before the sun outshone them all. "Did you have a pleasant evening alone in the dark?"

"I did, as a matter of fact," Celegon smirked, but his face soon softened as he observed his brother's wistful adoration of Elbereth's creation. "Come, we should go. We have far to travel before our journey's end," he spoke gently, resting his hand over Gilorn's heart.

Gilorn placed his own hand atop his brother's and turned his face towards him. "We must find _hír_ Fangorn, Celegon. He crossed the river only two days ahead of us. We can still catch him up if we make haste."

"No, little brother, we cannot." Celegon raised a hand for silence when Gilorn sat up quickly, ready to argue. " _Hír_ Fangorn is beyond our reach for now. His path is not ours, and our path is not one we can stray from. You know this, Gilorn. We must hold to our appointed task."

"But he has awakened! Finally, after all these centuries, he has returned to the world. And something is terribly wrong, Celegon. Some evil is at work here, I am sure of it. There is no other explanation. _Hír_ Fangorn needs help, he needs healing, and we can give him both. How can we abandon him now, when he needs us the most?"

"Gilorn," Celegon spoke firmly, "I will not forswear my duty to the Lady, and neither will you. I will not allow it. Think, little brother." Celegon shook Gilorn's shoulders lightly. "Think with your head and not your heart."

Gilorn knew his brother was right, he knew they could not abandon this mission, but it saddened him nonetheless. His head dipped in defeat. "But he is alone," he murmured.

Celegon stood and brushed himself off. " _Onodrim_ are always alone, except for their trees, and what lies across the Anduin but the largest mass of trees in Middle-earth? He will undoubtedly come across Eryn Galen in his wanderings and Thranduil will immediately know of his presence. Who better to help him in his distressed state?"

"Perhaps you are right, but…" Gilorn began hesitantly, "do you not feel it? A...wrongness? I cannot put my finger on it exactly, but it is there...just beyond my senses." He stood and strapped his quiver to his back, frowning in thought as he fastened the buckle. "Did you hear what Frumgar said? About his eyes? Celegon, _hír_ Fangorn did not have glowing green eyes."

"Perhaps he was mistaken," Celegon offered with a shrug, not entirely believing it himself, but hoping it was true.

Gilorn shot him a biting look and bent to grab his satchel and bow. "No, Celegon, something is wrong. Something is very wrong."

Celegon put an arm around Gilorn's shoulders and began to lead him slowly away from the campfire and into the early morning darkness. "I know," he said softly and gave his brother a squeeze. "Let us hope Thranduil will have a solution."

The brothers stopped midstride, hands reflexively moving towards their weapons when a figure emerged from the shadows and approached them with hesitant, unsteady steps. The woman stopped a short distance away and stood wringing her hands. Framed by wild blonde hair, her face was a picture of sadness, pleading for deliverance from her anguish, and her red-rimmed, watery eyes were fixed unwaveringly on Gilorn.

Celegon felt his brother tense at his side, glancing over to find the colour drained from his face and his lips parted in shock. The woman moved slowly towards them, this time holding her hands out to Gilorn. Much to Celegon's surprise, his brother stepped forward to meet her and allowed her to grasp his hands tightly. She looked up directly into Gilorn's eyes and spoke to him earnestly, though neither Elf could understand her words. She released his hands and placed her own on either side of his face, stroking his cheeks tenderly with her thumbs. Her long, well-worn shawl dropped from her shoulders and fell in a pale heap at her feet, but she paid no heed. Recognition finally dawned in Celegon's mind when he saw the faded blue dress that had been partially hidden beneath the shawl, the faded blue dress still stained with dark smears of blood. _The dead boy's mother_. No wonder his brother looked as if he had seen a ghost.

"Eda!" a man's voice called from nearby, snapping Celegon out of his daze, but Gilorn still seemed mesmerised by the woman's sad eyes and unintelligible words.

Gerolt rushed from the shadows, relief plain on his face when he spotted his wife. He stopped behind her and laid his hands on her shoulders, nodding once in greeting to the Elves and whispering into her ear. The woman let her hands slide from Gilorn's face with a sad smile and leaned back into her husband's chest.

Gilorn could still feel the warmth on his cheeks left by the woman's hands as if his skin had been visibly marked. He could not look away from the endless sadness in her eyes, seeing himself reflected within them. Marhwini had said the fault was not his. For a little while he had believed it to be true, but when he had seen her emerging from the darkness, when he had seen the anguish in her eyes, he knew he was the cause of it. He knew the blame was his. He had not been observant enough, quick enough, skilled enough to spare her this pain. He deserved her anger and her husband's retribution, yet here they stood before him looking at him with kindness.

Gerolt moved to stand at his wife's side and extended one hand, keeping the other firmly planted on her slender shoulder. Gilorn looked at the man in confusion and hesitated before taking the calloused hand that was offered. Gerolt gave him a small smile and spoke quietly, pulling him into a rough, one-armed embrace. He clapped the stunned Elf soundly on the back before releasing him and backed away to stand once more behind his wife.

Gilorn could hear Celegon softly call his name. He knew they must go, that their time was running out, but he could not tear himself away. He swallowed the lump in his throat. "It was my fault," he confessed in a harsh whisper and reached out for the woman's hands. He held them tightly, trying to make her understand. "It was my fault and I am sorry." Unshed tears stung his eyes as he looked from wife to husband, the pair of them taken aback by the Elf's emotion. He dropped her hands and fell to his knees before her, his eyes level with a dark streak of blood on her dress. "I do not deserve your forgiveness for I have failed you both, but I ask it nonetheless." His long hair, so pale it appeared white in the starlight, fell over his shoulders as he bowed his head and placed himself at their mercy.

He felt the soft touch of the woman's hand as she gently stroked his head, then the warmth of her embrace as she knelt and took him into her arms. She held him tightly and he clung to her in return, the image of his mother withered in grief fixed firmly in his mind's eye. She hummed a soft tune as she held him, stroking his long hair and rocking him slightly. Gilorn knew tears had spilt from his tightly closed eyes. He could feel their trailing warmth on his cheeks but he cared not. The woman pulled away after long moments and once again held his face within her hands. She shook her head and spoke to him, smiling through her tears, and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. She rose to her feet and her husband draped her with the shawl he had retrieved from the ground. She bent to give Gilorn one last kiss on the top of his head before walking away, her husband's arm wrapped firmly around her shoulders.

"Gilorn," Celegon spoke his name softly, coming to stand beside his kneeling brother and resting a hand lightly on his shoulder. His heart ached for him. "Are you well?"

Gilorn nodded, wiping the tears from his cheeks. "I am well." He stood and brushed the dirt from his knees and straightened the straps holding the quiver on his back.

"You know it was not your fault," Celegon stated matter of factly. "It was not your fault today and it was not your fault all those centuries ago. You cannot save everyone."

"And well I know it," Gilorn muttered looking up to the fading stars.

"Our mother never blamed you and neither did that _adaneth_. It is only you who thinks of blame."

Gilorn did not answer so Celegon stepped in front of him, forcing his brother to meet his eyes. "I never blamed you either."

Gilorn exhaled a shaky breath. "I know." He gave a weak smile and walked past his brother, bumping his shoulder playfully with his own. "Let us go before the entire camp wakes and you are forced to converse with _edain_ at this early hour."

"Your consideration is very much appreciated," Celegon smirked and they headed to the tree line side by side and eager to be on their way.

The Elves sped their pace the nearer they drew to the trees until they were in a full sprint, the lure of rustling leaves and high branches too strong to ignore, their Silvan blood singing with the close proximity of a forest. It was a race by the end, with Celegon leaping onto a low branch with a triumphant laugh only seconds before his brother.

Gilorn hung from the branch by his hands and smiled up at his brother, his feet swinging above the grass. His smile slowly faded and he released his hold of the branch, letting himself drop the short distance back to the ground.

"Gilorn? Come. We go." Celegon watched as his brother looked back over his shoulder to the encampment. Shadowy figures could now be seen milling about the camp, beginning their day in the misty greyness of near dawn.

"I cannot leave without a proper goodbye. It would be...rude." Gilorn began walking back the way they came and heard his brother mutter a few very human swears. "You need not accompany me. I will not be long," he said over his shoulder.

"It would be rude," Celegon muttered under his breath. "They do not deserve your consideration, Gilorn, or your kindness. Not all of them," he called.

Gilorn paused and looked back at his brother, his head tilted curiously and his lips quirked with humour. "I only go back for one, not all."

Celegon huffed and crossed his arms. "Go on then, but do hurry up." He shook his head as his brother walked away and settled in to wait, making himself more comfortable on the branch.

Gilorn arrived back in the camp to the startled glances of those he passed as he seemingly materialised from the mist and shadow, blending into his muted surroundings with his warden's garb. He ignored them all, even Marhwini himself, as he glided through the camp. The old man opened his mouth to greet him, but Gilorn merely passed him by without a second look, his eyes focused on his destination.

As the Elf approached the campfire, Fram quickly rose to his feet, his sullen expression lightening. " _I thought you had left without saying goodbye,"_ he said with a crooked grin.

Frumgar was knelt feeding the fire and preparing to cook a small breakfast for Metta, who still lay sleeping beside her husband. He glanced over his shoulder to see the tall Elf looming above him and stood quickly, annoyed that he had not heard the Elf's silent approach and surprised that the grey-clad figure was there at all since he had been nowhere to be found within the camp only a little while ago. He nodded a greeting and watched with a confused frown as the Elf stepped around him to get to his brother.

Gilorn studied Fram's smooth, beardless face and hopeful expression, then glanced down with fondness at the young man's sleeping wife. She was lying on her side, her body curled protectively around her pregnant belly and blonde ringlets spilling onto the ground around her. Reluctantly, Gilorn looked away and met Fram's earthy brown eyes. "I returned so that we may have a proper parting of ways." He watched Fram's eyes flick to his brother as Frumgar repeated his words, and saw the boy's grin broaden.

Gilorn stood for a long moment, thoughtful and silent, before slowly pulling a white-fletched arrow from his quiver and rolling it between his fingers. He smoothed the white feathers then held it out to Fram. "Take this. Let it be a reminder of your second chance at life, a chance not to be wasted."

Fram took the arrow reverently in both hands and stared it with wide eyes. " _Thank you,"_ he whispered, tightening his grip.

"I wish to give you this as well." Gilorn reached down and pulled a small, vicious dagger from his boot. Its grip was made of smooth, dark wood and inlaid with silver in a swirling pattern. The blade itself was sharp and double-edged, with no adornment other than its unusual brightness. "Protect her and protect your son, and when he is of age pass this to him so that he may, in turn, use it to protect those he loves." Gilorn flipped the dagger, catching its blade between his fingers, and held it out to Fram hilt first. "Its twin I still carry."

Frumgar had come closer to admire the exquisite blade and distractedly relayed the Elf's words as he watched his brother accept the priceless gift.

" _I thank you, truly, and I swear I will do as you say."_ Fram clutched the precious gifts to his chest and bowed low to the Elf.

Gilorn placed his hand on his heart, bowing slightly himself. "I doubt we will meet again so I will say _namárië_ and wish you safe travels. I hope you find the home you seek. Farewell, sons of Forthwine." With a final nod and a swirl of his grey cloak, Gilorn turned and strode away, the two men watching silently as he disappeared into the shadows.

When he reached the tree line, Marhwini was waiting there with two horses saddled and provisioned. The old man was looking up at Celegon who was still perched on the low branch, but now with an arrow nocked and pointed at the ground at the man's feet. "What is happening here?"

"Your brother will not accept my apology, but I was hoping you would accept these horses to help you on your way," Marhwini replied, still watching Celegon with narrowed eyes. "They are two of our best, and they seemed to be fond of you. I know you will look after them." The old man held the reins out to Gilorn who accepted them with a slight bow.

"We thank you for your kindness and will gladly accept these fine horses," Gilorn said with a hand over his heart. He spoke quiet Silvan words to the chestnut mare he had ridden the day before, scratching between her ears and enjoying the feeling of her warm breath snuffling in his hair.

"It is much less than you deserve, but the most I can give," Marhwini smiled sadly as he gave a few final pats to his beloved horses. "I cannot thank you enough for all you have done for my people." He glanced up to Celegon. "Both of you." He extended his hand to Gilorn who accepted it with a firm grip. "I wish you safe travels. May your road be easy and your journey uneventful."

Gilorn gave the man half a smile. " _Namárië,_ Marhwini son of Marhari. Safe travels. May you soon find the green pastures of the home you seek." The old man returned his smile and turned away, striding back to his people. He lifted a hand in farewell but did not look back.

"Well, this is fortunate indeed," Celegon said as hopped down from the tree. He slid the arrow back into his quiver and hooked the bow onto his back, walking over to the grey horse he had been loaned the day before. He smiled and spoke to him gently as he stroked his neck, praising his fine coat and his strength. The horse tossed his head proudly, nickering as if he agreed with the Elf. Celegon chuckled. "Perhaps your former master is not such a fool after all, hmm?" he said to the horse. "Though if he thought to buy my forgiveness with a horse he was sorely mistaken."

"Ai, Celegon," Gilorn chided. "It is a gift of great value given by an _adan_ who has very little. Do not make light of it."

"True enough. Now, what shall I call you, eh? What is your name?" Celegon stroked the ash grey muzzle and grinned to himself. "I think I will call you Hithrenor*. A perfect name."

Gilorn snorted. "Hithrenor? Very original." He hopped nimbly into the saddle of his own chestnut mare and adjusted his cloak around him.

"Do not insult my proud Hithrenor. He is not as quick to forgive as I am." Celegon pulled himself up onto the horse, settling comfortably into the saddle and reaching out to comb his fingers through Hithrenor's creamy white mane. "Do not listen to him," he murmured to the animal while cutting his eyes at his brother. "Yours is a fine name for a fine horse." The horse snorted and tossed his head in agreement. "And what grand name will you bestow upon your mare?"

Gilorn thought for a moment while he gathered the leather reins in his fingers. He glanced up at the fading starlight, a wistful smile curving his lips. "Tindil*."

"Fitting name for a horse of yours," Celegon smirked and moved his horse closer to Gilorn's. "Come. We go." He clapped his brother on the back and with a squeeze of his legs, Hithrenor shot off into the early morning mists.

Gilorn followed, glancing one final time over his shoulder in the direction of the encampment of Men...in the direction of his beloved Golden Wood. He raised himself in the saddle and leaned forward to whisper words of speed into Tindil's ear. He could not contain his joyous laughter as the horse sped through the grey dawn, the wind whipping his pale hair and his cloak behind him. It was not long before he caught up to his brother, and they raced side by side ever northwards through the fading of night.

OOOOOO

The Elves stood quietly observing the scene before them, their grey cloaks and pale hair stirring in the gentle breeze. A swathe of devastation lay before them, marring the beautiful landscape and the golden afternoon, yet the birds still sang their cheerful songs and the insects hummed along as if the ground around them was not painted with blood and gore.

A gaping hole in the ruined earth was all that was left of Treebeard's long slumber, but the dark splashes of old blood staining the grass and the remnants of crushed, indiscernible corpses littering the area was definite proof of his awakening. The trees nearby were lined with a multitude of eager carrion birds while several larger birds circled high overhead, slicing through the blue sky on their wide-spread wings. The birds watched the pair of Elves with beady black eyes, waiting impatiently for them to depart so that they may continue their grim feast undisturbed, and gave the occasional harsh caw to speed the interlopers on their way.

Gilorn swallowed hard, though his throat felt dry. "Once again we have come too late. What evil is this, Celegon, that would drive an _onod_ to such destruction?"

"I know not," came his brother's nearly inaudible reply.

"What do we do?" Gilorn looked to his brother with anguished eyes that shone with unshed tears.

Celegon put his arm protectively around his brother's shoulders and pulled him closer to his side. "We go on. We hold to our appointed task. We do what has been asked of us by those wiser than ourselves." He gave Gilorn a reassuring squeeze before guiding him away and back to their waiting horses. "We make for the Pass."

As he mounted Tindil, Gilorn looked to the east, to the shadow in the distance that was Eryn Galen. If anyone could help the Lord of Fangorn, it was most assuredly the Elvenking. He could only hope that Treebeard was heading in that direction. He greatly desired to ride with all haste straight to the forest, straight to Thranduil, to seek his assistance as he had wished so long ago, but he knew his brother was right. They must go on. He pulled his gaze back to the north, to the high mist-crowned mountains that loomed over Middle-earth. Their path led them beyond those peaks and far from home. Gilorn lowered his chin, determination shining in his eyes. He would follow his brother, he would fulfil his duty, and then he would seek his answers.

OOOOOO

 **Lothlórien**

"Hope is not lost. It sails from the West." Celeborn blinked up at the darkened ceiling, his wife's troubled words drawing him from his reverie, so he rolled to his side and found her still in a restless sleep.

"Galadriel," he quietly spoke her name, trailing his fingers down her arm. She did not wake but continued murmuring, a fleeting frown touching her brow at the sound of his voice.

Celeborn laid a cool hand upon her cheek and breathed her name once more, calling her back to the waking world as he so often did. She gasped and blinked awake, her eyes wide but unseeing, still lost within her dreams. Blind to her surroundings, her husband's touch was all that anchored her to reality.

"It has begun," she said, her voice hardly more than a harsh whisper. "It has begun and I have sent them into grave danger. I fear they will not return to us. Celeborn!" She reached blindly for her husband, clutching at him and pulling herself into his waiting arms and against the length of his body.

"I am here," he murmured into her hair, placing a kiss atop her head.

"The trees, Celeborn, the forests! And our precious _mallyrn_! How can we stop this? How can we stand against…"

He felt her ragged breaths on his chest, felt her body shudder against his as she clung to him. He felt her fear.

"It has awakened," her voice deepened as she spoke the words. "It has awakened within him. This should not have happened. It should not be possible."

Galadriel pulled back within Celeborn's embrace so she could look upon his face, her gaze now sharp and focused solely on his as she laid her mind open and showed him what lurked within her dreams. His eyes widened and his heart quailed at what he saw. She lightly stroked his brow until his worried frown smoothed. "How are we to stand against such a thing? How will I…" Her words trailed off and a slow tear rolled down her pale cheek as she studied the ring glinting on her finger.

Celeborn placed his lips over the falling tear and brushed her golden hair away from her face and over her shoulder. "We will stand as we always have, my love. Together." He watched as her delicate fingers brushed over the ring's clear gem and saw a flame of white light flicker within it.

"Together," she whispered. Galadriel looked up into the face of her beloved and pressed her lips to his. With a sad smile, she reluctantly pulled away and sat on the edge of the bed. She felt him move to sit close behind her, his proximity and bodily warmth a welcome comfort.

At her bedside on an elegant table sat an ancient remnant of her life in the West - a small strongbox of silver and gold, a gift from one whom she had thrice denied. She had kept it all this time as a reminder of the perils of pride and of Ages long past in a land far away. Over the years it had held many trinkets that were dear to her, but now it held a treasure of a different kind. Galadriel sat the box on her lap and lifted the lid, admiring the scattering of silvery seeds hidden inside. The little mound of _mallorn_ seeds resting on black velvet had long been the box's only inhabitants, but now Nenya, the Ring of Adamant, would join them. With a deep breath, Galadriel pulled the ring from her finger, holding it tightly and sending up a silent prayer before nestling it reverently among the precious seeds. Slowly she closed the lid and turned the tiny key, securing the priceless items within.

"I place this in your keeping for now, my husband. Find a secret place to hide it, a safe place that none may know. I must hurry to my Mirror and see what it holds. I fear great evil is upon us. I fear…"

"I know what it is you fear, Galadriel," Celeborn said from behind her, gently squeezing her slender shoulders. "Go, my love, warn the others and do what you must. I will take care of this as you ask."

She rose to her feet, placing the box in his waiting hands and a lingering kiss upon his waiting lips. His gaze was warm on her bare skin as she crossed the room to fetch the gossamer gown so carelessly discarded during the night. Galadriel glanced over her shoulder with a regretful smile once the thin material had slid over her head and into place.

"I shall return to you as soon as I am able," she whispered.

Celeborn watched her soundlessly glide from the room and out of his sight, knowing it would be hours before he saw her again. "I will be waiting," he spoke the words softly to the space she had vacated, his thumb absently stroking the flower-like star wrought in gold on the box's top. He lifted the box to eye level and studied it with a slight frown. "Now what am I to do with you?" he queried, not expecting an answer but receiving one nonetheless.

 **Tbc...**

 **OOOOOO**

 **Helpful Definitions**

 _Edain / adan_ \- men / man  
 _Hír_ \- Lord  
 _Elleth_ \- Female Elf  
 _Drúedain_ \- wildmen  
 _Onodrim / onod_ \- Ents / Ent  
 _Adaneth_ \- woman  
 _Namárië_ \- Farewell  
 _Mallorn / mallyrn_ \- the golden trees of Lothlórien

Hithrenor - gray one  
Tindil - lover of the stars

 **And I thought I'd finally reveal the meanings of these names as well:**

Celegon - swift/agile  
Gilorn - star tree  
Angolion - sons of deep lore/magic

 **A/N: So what did you think? This will be the last we see of Celegon and Gilorn for a while...ish. Will you be sad to see them go? They'd love to stick around, but they're needed elsewhere for very important business. Can you guess where? And me...well, I have business with a certain Elvenking in Mirkwood.**

 **Once again, thank you for reading, reviewing and following this story. Your support and feedback are always greatly appreciated. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and the story so far. I'd love to hear what you think!**


	15. The Shadow Unseen

**Mirkwood**

The Elvenking strode through his forest towards his halls of wood and stone, lost in thought and heedless of the beauty around him or the growing things that rose to greet him. The trees welcomed his presence with joy, drawing back their high branches to allow dappled rays of golden light to fall upon his path and crown his fair hair with radiance as he passed. They showered him with offerings of falling leaves and floating blossoms, but Thranduil saw none of it. His mind was occupied by darker things. Uneasiness and foreboding twisted and danced through his thoughts, leaving a cloud of doubt and a burgeoning fear in their wake. Not fear for himself, no - fear for his people, his forest. Despite the cacophony of thoughts echoing in his mind, Thranduil still heard the whispered warning of the trees. His presence had been marked. He was being tracked.

His gloved hand came to rest on the hilt of his sword as he slowed to a halt. He had reached the stream that would lead eventually to his great oak, the tree of his birth, and still had more than two hours to walk to reach his halls. He paused there at the edge of the water, calmly surveying his surroundings. A gentle breeze stirred the fallen petals and leaves that clung to his hair and dusted his shoulders, sending the unheeded gifts fluttering into the air around him. Thranduil watched with detachment as the swift water carried them away, but his senses were attuned to the trees. Though their Song was changed by the new discordant thread, it still resonated within him. Every fibre of his being sang with it. His eyes drifted closed and his head cocked to the side as he listened, attempting to pinpoint the whereabouts and identity of his tracker. He could sense his Forest Guard ahead in the near distance, ten of them, patrolling an east-west route. _Easily avoidable_. He could sense more stationed farther away on _flets_ high in the trees. _Also easily avoidable_. _But where...there_! With a muttered swear his ice blue eyes flew open. _Astorion_. Thranduil nearly groaned aloud.

He was not prepared for this encounter, not yet anyway, though he supposed it was bound to happen. He had hoped by the time he reached his mountain halls to have his thoughts collected enough for the explanation his Steward would surely demand. Thranduil knew him well; Astorion would not be thwarted by anyone or anything. If the Steward felt the situation was not being handled to his satisfaction and the expected results were not immediately forthcoming, then he would do whatever he deemed necessary, even if that meant venturing into the forest himself to fetch a wayward King. Astorion had the uncanny knack of always being able to find Thranduil in the forest - a knack that mystified the guards and had perturbed the King to no end in the days of his youth. It perturbed him no less now. _No matter_. He would attempt to delay the inevitable for as long as possible.

Thranduil stepped into the stream. The water was shallow, coming only to his ankles, but the rounded stones beneath it were slippery and uneven. He sloshed through the water quickly and carefully leaving no trace of his passing and made his way to a low hanging branch downstream. The Elvenking greeted the old willow with a murmur of ancient Silvan, stroking the leaves that hung within his reach before leaping to grab hold of the branch. He pulled himself up easily and climbed to a height where he could observe without being observed. The willow's leafy embrace shielded him from prying eyes and his forest garb ensured he would remain unseen. He stood leaning against the gnarled trunk with arms crossed, hoping Astorion would pass him by and he could make his way back to his halls unhindered. The leaves whispered and waved in the soft wind, soothing him and drawing his eyes skyward as he waited.

Astorion made no sound as he approached but Thranduil sensed him nonetheless. His body tensed in readiness as he watched the Steward stop beside the stream. Astorion glanced around slowly, surveying his surroundings with deceptive casualness. He sank to one knee and cupped his hands to take a long drink from the cool, clear water, the sun glinting off his raven-dark hair.

"Are you coming down?" he asked, flicking water from his fingertips and rising to his feet. "Or shall I come up?" His expectant face tilted in Thranduil's direction and his arms folded impatiently across his chest.

Thranduil gritted his teeth and said nothing. How many times had he been in a similar position? How many times had Astorion spoken those exact words? _Too many_ _to count_.

One elegant brow on the upturned face arched in challenge. "Well? I am waiting."

The Elvenking frowned, sorely tempted to keep Astorion waiting but quickly dismissing the childish notion. He uncrossed his arms with a resigned sigh and pushed himself away from the comforting hum of the tree's trunk, taking a moment to study his hands. The bandaged right hand still bore the inky black stains and he was sure the left looked much the same beneath its leather glove. Hesitant fingers skimmed his forehead and high cheekbones as he remembered his tainted reflection and the unearthly glow of the gaze that had stared back at him. He closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. Thranduil steeled himself for the confrontation, his familiar mask of haughty indifference firmly in place as he took two long, sure strides and stepped off the branch. The old willow pulled aside its boughs, allowing the Elvenking a clear descent. Unphased by the height of the drop, Thranduil landed silently in a low crouch and rose gracefully, shoulders squared and back straight as a shower of loosened leaves rained down around him.

"Astorion." Thranduil lifted his chin slightly and clasped his hands behind his back, slipping easily into his regal demeanour, his very posture daring the Steward to say anything untoward.

" _Aran nín_ ," Astorion replied quietly with a slight bow. He took a moment to openly study his King's profile and dishevelled appearance before Thranduil turned to face him.

"What brings you this far into my forest? Do you have no other duties to occupy your time?" Thranduil asked, finally turning to hold Astorion's gaze. He observed his Steward closely for a reaction to his appearance, both dreading and expecting him to recoil in shock or revulsion, but there was no change in that stony exterior, not even a flicker of surprise. "And why do you carry my bow?" Curiosity softened the edge in his voice as he caught sight of the weapon slung behind the Steward's back. The last he had seen of his beloved bow it was resting safely within his weapons cabinet, which meant that Astorion had been in his chambers and taken it from the cabinet. It also meant that he had most likely witnessed the destruction left in the washroom. Thranduil felt a lurch of uneasiness at the thought.

Astorion's teeth clenched, the muscle in his jaw twitched and his eyes flashed angrily. He tilted his head in disbelief, his fury palpable. "What?" he whispered sharply. "Forgive me, _your majesty_ , but you dare greet me with the questions _I_ should be asking?"

The bitingly emphasised honorific did not escape the Elvenking's notice. Astorion stalked forward until they were nearly toe to toe. Thranduil fought the urge to step back and stood his ground, lifting his chin even higher and clenching his fists behind his back. There were not many in the realm who stood tall enough to look the Elvenking directly in the eye. Astorion was one of them. There were even fewer in the realm who risked speaking their mind to the Elvenking. Astorion was one of them. Dark eyes bored into his own for a long moment, assessing and judging Thranduil knew not what before dropping to scrutinise the rest of his appearance. Done with his unnerving perusal, the Steward's gaze once more met Thranduil's, his anger melting into concern.

"What happened, Thranduil? What troubles you? Why flee your own halls like a thief in the night?"

Thranduil blinked in confusion at the unexpected questions, his mind racing with possible answers but unsure where to begin. He slowly pulled his hands from behind his back and held them open in front of him, revealing his stained skin to the Steward and waiting for the dreaded reaction. Astorion followed Thranduil's line of sight down to the hands slightly trembling before him, then raised a questioning glance to his King.

"You have been injured," he said, taking the right hand into his own and inspecting the bloodied bandage. "Let me see it."

Thranduil watched the careful inspection for a moment. "Astorion…"

The Steward began picking at the knot to loosen it. Thranduil halfheartedly tried to pull his hand away but Astorion held on tighter. "Be still and let me see what you've done to yourself."

"Astorion…"

The dark-haired _ellon_ huffed in annoyance. "Damned thing is knotted too tightly," he muttered. "Here, sit a moment." He sank to his knees and tugged the King down with him, pulling a dagger from his boot to cut away the offending knot.

Thranduil allowed himself to be pulled to the mossy ground, too distracted to argue against it. "Do you not see it?" he asked quietly, his dark brows drawn together in worry.

Astorion's focus was solely on unwinding the tattered linen. "See what?"

Thranduil could take no more of his Steward's evasiveness. "Look at me!" The sudden shout stilled Astorion's hands as he stared in shocked silence at the King. "Why do you say nothing? Can you not see?" Thranduil gestured from his face down the length of his body in frustration. He snatched the leather glove from his hand, tossing it aside and yanking up his sleeves to sit with both arms extended expectantly. He saw the stricken look on his Steward's face and let his arms drop to his lap. The _ellon's_ confusion was only increasing his own. Thranduil's outrage was quickly spent. "Why do you say nothing?" he whispered.

"Thranduil..." Astorion began cautiously. "What am I supposed to say? What is it I am supposed to see? I do not understand." The thread of fear he felt when Himdir disclosed the King's absence had returned, snaking through his middle. Something was wrong with Thranduil. Something was very wrong. Never had he seen a look of such hopeless desperation on the Elvenking's face, not once in all the millennia he had known him. The sight disturbed him more than he cared to admit. Astorion laid a cautious hand on Thranduil's knee, watching that brief glimpse of vulnerability disappear behind a wall the King raised brick by brick. "Do not shut me out now. Tell me what has happened. Are you well?"

Thranduil was silent for a long moment as he composed himself, tamping down his roiling emotions and seeking the cool detachment in which he so often hid. "I do not know," he admitted, hanging his head to escape Astorion's dark, piercing look. He studied his hands, thumbs rubbing back and forth across blackened fingertips, lost in thought. Taking a deep breath, he decided to confide in his Steward - his most trusted advisor, the _only_ one he trusted beyond all doubt. "Last night I dreamt," he began haltingly, "but I was not alone within the dream. Something was there with me, stalking the paths of my dreams, twisting them..." he trailed off, his memories straying to writhing roots and luminous green eyes. "I saw my forest infected by a vile, creeping darkness, I saw my people consumed by it and I could do nothing to stop it. I was helpless. And I fear...I fear I may have met Darkness itself." Thranduil swallowed hard and dared to look into Astorion's unreadable gaze before continuing calmly. "There was a creature, an evil the likes of which I have never seen, drenched in living shadow with eyes that shone an unearthly green. It rose from the forest floor, grew from the roots of the trees themselves. I was at its mercy, defenceless as it imprisoned me within its grasp. It spoke to me."

"What did it say?" Astorion's voice was hardly more than a whisper as he watched Thranduil intently. He knew such dreams should not be taken lightly; they were often a portent of things to come, but Thranduil was no seer, not like Galadriel or the _peredhel_ Elrond. His dreams should be haunted by nothing more than his own past.

"It said that I was his."

Astorion frowned thoughtfully, seeing clearly through Thranduil's false calm. "Yet there is more, is there not?"

The Elvenking surged to his feet, pacing back and forth with his arms crossed and dark brows furrowed. "I do not wish to speak of it, Astorion."

"But speak you will."

Thranduil paused mid-stride to peer down at the _ellon_ imperiously. "Do you think to command me, Steward?"

Astorion smirked. "Not in the company of others, no. I would not dream of it. But I see no others here." He snorted at Thranduil's look of incredulity and rose slowly to his feet, brushing off his knees. With a firm hand, he guided the King over to a large, flat-topped rock by the stream. "I do not speak to the Elvenking, Thranduil. I speak to _you_. And I speak to you thus because your father is not here to do so. Sit." The Elvenking sat, too stunned to argue. "Now, what are you not telling me?"

Thranduil inhaled sharply to begin, but could not find the words. Astorion lowered himself gracefully into a crouch, watching expectantly with fathomless dark eyes. "I died in that dream, Astorion. I am sure of it. I felt that creature crush the breath from my body, felt my bones breaking, _heard_ them snapping. I felt its darkness fill my lungs as if I were drowning. I felt my _fëa_ depart. I felt _death_ , Astorion. Death!"

The Steward had leant forward as Thranduil spoke but slowly drew himself straight once more. That filament of fear was back, icy cold as it wound itself tightly around his heart. He shook his head in denial. "No. Impossible."

Thranduil held up a hand to stop the Steward's protest. "I know what I felt. But there was something else. A voice, a whisper like a golden thread. It called me to wake, bid me not to fear the darkness. I followed that thread and found myself back in my bed, awake and alive, when I was so sure I should not be."

"A nightmare. Just a nightmare, nothing more." Astorion spoke the words aloud, hoping to convince himself of their veracity.

"It was not just a nightmare. Never in my four thousand years have I had a nightmare! The paths of my dreams have only ever led me to where I have already been, though sometimes that is nightmare enough." Thranduil released a tired sigh, his icy exterior slowly melting away. "When I awoke, the black _filth_ of that creature had stained my skin. I had carried it with me into the waking world. I saw myself in the mirror, Astorion. I saw the taint that creature had left upon me. I see it still! The same dark filth that filled my lungs, the same living shadow crawling over my skin. I tried to wash it away but it only spread." His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "I saw my reflection but the eyes looking back at me were not my own."

"Not your own?"

Thranduil raked his fingers through his hair, the now-loosened end of the bandage fluttering with the movement. "It was my reflection, tainted though it was, but the eyes...they were the eyes of that monster. Green and glowing." His facade began to crack, revealing the apprehension beneath the calm exterior. "I have tried. I have tried to remove this...cursed _filth_ but it will not come off!" He rubbed roughly at the stains on his hands, at the lines on his arms, but the darkness remained in place.

Astorion had listened attentively, his eyes darting over the Elvenking's face, observing every nuance, every expression, every fleeting emotion that crossed it. He placed his hands gently atop Thranduil's own, stilling their movement. "Thranduil. Thranduil, look at me," he spoke calmly, though he felt far from it. Pale blue eyes met his own and he sighed at the despair he saw within them. He gripped the Elvenking's slumped shoulders and spoke to him earnestly. "I do not know what ails you but I promise you I will help fix it. I will help you. But, Thranduil," Astorion glanced down to the King's hands. "There is nothing there. Your skin is clean."

Thranduil shrugged off his Steward's grip and lurched to his feet, shaking his head. "No! I saw it. Even now I see it. Astorion -"

"There is nothing there, Thranduil, I swear it!"

"That cannot be," Thranduil whispered, staring blankly at his stained hands. He took a quick breath and looked down to his Steward's concerned face. "Am I going mad?"

Astorion saw a flicker of genuine fear as those four words were whispered and forced himself to manage a small, reassuring smile as he rose to stand before his King. "No, no of course not! You need rest. You carry the weight of too many worries and have not been sleeping as you should. Exhaustion is taking its toll. We will see Laleithian as soon as we get back. She will have more insight than I as to what ails you." The Steward let out a long-suffering sigh. He hesitated a moment then pulled Thranduil into a firm embrace. "Ai, you foolish boy. Do you have any idea how worried I was?" he whispered, squeezing tightly.

Thranduil stiffened at the unexpected contact and his Steward's surprising words but slowly relaxed, feeling the weight of years fall away as he allowed himself to be embraced. He could not remember the last time he had been held, comforted. As King, he garnered loyalty and respect, even admiration, but rarely affection. He was surrounded by Counsellors, guards, subjects, and soldiers but not friends, not family. He felt alone in a sea of familiar faces. Adrift. He craved an anchor, something to cling to and so, just for now, he clung to Astorion. Thranduil knew the Steward cared for him, perhaps even loved him, but the _ellon_ had never spoken the words aloud and was rarely demonstrative of any affection. Thranduil closed his eyes and savoured the contact, letting himself relax just for a moment before the mask of kingship would need to be donned again. They stood in silence for some time, no longer the King and his Steward but simply one who needed comfort and one who offered it.

Astorion pulled away from Thranduil abruptly. "Now sit and let me have a look at your hand," he ordered, pushing the dazed King to sit once more on the moss-covered stone before carefully unwinding the bandage. "How did this happen?"

"The mirror. I broke it," Thranduil answered absently, still slightly baffled by the display of affection. He watched Astorion work, attempting to convince himself that the darkness he saw staining his skin was not really there.

Astorion shot the King a knowing glance. "Yes, I saw the blood," he answered wryly. "Himdir did mention he heard you shouting. Your temper does you no favours, Thranduil." He had unwrapped the bandage until it stuck to the broken, bloodied skin and paused to study his progress. "Putting your fist through a mirror because you did not like the reflection was not the wisest decision." Tearing off the trailing loose end, he wadded the linen and dipped it into the stream, placing it atop Thranduil's hand and squeezing the water from it to soak the clinging material. "Let that sit a moment to loosen. Does it pain you?" He relaxed back on his heels and studied the King whose gaze was fixed in the distance.

"Not anymore," Thranduil murmured. His eyes drifted back to Astorion. "You truly do not see the darkness?" He lifted a hand to his face, caressing the smooth skin of his cheeks, his forehead.

Astorion shook his head, frowning slightly in disconcertment. "No. I see no darkness," he whispered. "There is no darkness upon, no darkness within you. You are the Elvenking. You are untainted."

Thranduil sighed and closed his eyes in defeat. "My forest is not."

"The shadow in the south is not of your making, Thranduil. Something stirs in Dol Guldur. We will endure until we defeat the evil that has taken root there."

"No, no, this is different. You do not understand! Last night the forest's Song fell silent. I could not hear it! Always the trees sing, they whisper, they call to me." Thranduil's eyes were pleading. "I do not remember a time in this forest without the Song but last night there was nothing, only silence. I thought perhaps...I feared that creature from my dream…"

The Steward made a hum of understanding as Thranduil's words trailed off. He took the opportunity to discard the sodden linen and continue picking off the blood encrusted bandage while Thranduil was distracted.

The King's words came quieter now, slower. "I feared that the creature, that the dream may have been real. That if I woke to find a remnant of that nightmare upon my skin, then perhaps that creature truly _was_ stalking my forest, that my people, my guards were in danger. And then I stepped outside to find the Song silenced. The trees were not speaking...they were listening, waiting. But for what, for whom?"

"So you took it upon yourself to investigate. Alone." Astorion eyed Thranduil sternly, one brow arched in question. "Do you not think you would feel it the moment a thing of such great evil set foot in your forest?"

Thranduil winced, knowing the Steward was right and feeling slightly ashamed that he had let his fear rule his decision. "I had to go. I had to make sure. All night I searched, jumping at shadows like an elfling, stalking my own Forest Guard to protect them from a dream, but there was nothing amiss. Nothing except the Song. Then it began again in the dim light of dawn, but it was not the same. It was...off, wrong. Unfamiliar. Something has tainted it, changed it somehow. Unless it is I who has been tainted, changed. I am no longer sure. The trees whisper of a coming but I do not know what comes. Whatever it is, the forest awaits it eagerly."

"I am sure there is a reasonable explanation for all of this. There must be. Rest assured, we will find it. Together." Astorion pulled away the last of the linen bandage and rinsed the King's hand carefully with cool water from the stream.

Thranduil stared unseeing at the rushing water while his mind raced. Perhaps he was still within the dream, some unending nightmare, and would wake in his bed to find it all an unpleasant memory. Perhaps...

Astorion had gone very still. For a long, silent moment he stared at Thranduil's unbandaged hand before grabbing the other. He turned it this way and that, even lifted the sleeves of Thranduil's shirt, searching. "Thranduil," he began hesitantly. "Where exactly were you wounded?"

The King looked to him in confusion and then at his injured hand. The skin was unmarred, unbroken. There were no cuts on his knuckles, no chunk of skin missing from his smallest finger. "How is this possible?" he whispered, pulling his hand from Astorion's grasp and running his fingers over the places he knew to be wounded. "Here. There were cuts, there was…" he trailed off, looking to Astorion's frowning visage. "Astorion, my fist went through that mirror. There was pain. I bled. I know it."

Astorion was staring grimly at Thranduil's hand. "I saw the blood. Himdir, Galion, they saw it as well." His dark eyes lifted to the King's face and studied him closely. "Perhaps this goes deeper than I thought," he murmured. _This may be beyond any of us here in Eryn Galen._ His thoughts were interrupted by Thranduil's vice-like grip on his arm.

The Elvenking's eyes had drifted to the trees and his head had tilted to the side, listening. "Something foul approaches. We should go."

They rose quickly and sprinted the short distance to the old willow, each vaulting up into its leafy heights and crouching low.

"Which way?"

"From the northwest," Thranduil replied, still concentrating on the whispering of the trees.

"Can you tell what approaches?"

" _Yrch_. A large company. The forest is angry. They defile the trees. How many arrows do you have?"

"Twenty." Astorion watched Thranduil revert back to himself, leaving behind all traces of the fear and uncertainty that had plagued him only moments ago to become again the deadly warrior, the shrewd and unyielding Elvenking, protector of his forest and its inhabitants, cold and unflinching in the face of those who threatened what was his.

"It will have to do. We could avoid the enemy and make it back to the palace unscathed but there are ten members of my Forest Guard in that direction. They will face a skirmish. We must assist."

"Thranduil, you are the King. The Forest Guard are trained to deal with threats such as this. It is not your duty. Your duty is to your people…."

"They _are_ my people!"

Astorion bowed his head to hide his frustration behind the fall of his dark hair. "Be that as it may, it is imperative you make it back in one piece. I will not allow you to -"

"You will not allow? Who is King here, Astorion?" The fire in his eyes burned brightly. "You will not allow," Thranduil scoffed.

"Thranduil…"

"Need I remind you that I am also trained to deal with threats such as this? I will not turn my back and run to safety when I am near enough to render aid. _You_ go back to the palace if you feel so inclined but I will not."

Astorion bit his tongue. "As you wish, _aran nín,_ but I will accompany you in this endeavour. I will not let you out of my sight again since you can no longer be trusted to remain where you are meant to be." He looked pointedly at Thranduil who gave him an infuriating dimpled smirk in return. "You are insufferable," he muttered under his breath.

Thranduil's smirk only grew as he made to leap away but a firm hand on his arm kept him in place. He eyed Astorion with a raised brow.

"If we get separated, if things go badly, go back. Do not wait for me, just go." Thranduil rolled his eyes and made to leave again. Astorion squeezed his arm harder. "Swear it!"

Thranduil stopped the biting remark waiting on his lips when he saw the intense gaze Astorion levelled in his direction. "Very well. I give you my word."

Astorion released his arm, satisfied. "Enter the palace from your balcony. Himdir expects your return from that direction and guards your door to keep the over-curious at bay."

"I am assuming by 'over-curious' you mean Lord Tarphen and his minions." A quirk of the Steward's lips said it all. "We will return together, Astorion. Worry not. Come now, we must go." Without a glance back to see if his Steward followed, Thranduil vaulted off towards the approaching danger.

Through the treetops, the two Elves ran swiftly and silently, leaping from branch to branch without hesitation until the sounds of battle reached their ears. The angry whispers of the trees swelled and crescendoed, fueling Thranduil's fury. They came to rest high in a tall pine with little to obscure their vision of the fighting below. Astorion whistled a signal to the embattled guards, letting them know help approached from the trees, then unslung the bow from his back. He thrust it none too gently against Thranduil's chest, halting the Elvenking before he could leap away and forcing him to take hold of the weapon.

"Take this," he ordered, tossing the quiver in Thranduil's direction while keeping his eyes fixed on the skirmish beneath them. "You shoot. I will go." Quickly and silently he dropped to a low branch before an objection could be voiced. There he paused momentarily to assess the threat.

Though surrounded by many enemy corpses, the Forest Guard were still greatly outnumbered. Two of their rank lay unmoving on the ground, the rest fought fiercely against the twenty-odd orcs besetting them from all sides. Arrows depleted, the green-garbed Elves had resorted to knives and swords, black blood and desperation painting their faces. Astorion quickly calculated his next moves, drew his sword and dropped from his perch to land between a wounded guard and a monstrous brute of an orc, blocking the jagged, blackened blade before it could reach the staggering guard. He calmly sliced the orc's head from its shoulders before whirling to remove the blade arm of another. Arrows rained down from above with deadly accuracy, singing through the air and lodging in the hides of the enemy. The orcs were larger and more intelligent than the usual variety that infested the forest, some even taking two or more arrows to fell. Astorion grimaced with distaste as a warm spray of foul blood splashed across his face. He had been too long removed from battle and ensconced in palace life but some things one never forgot. The taste of orc blood was one of them.

Methodically and efficiently he moved through his enemies, pushing injured Elves to safety and steadying the ones who stumbled until he felt a burning sting on his left side. He glanced down to see his own blood seeping through a tear in his tunic. Anger flared within him and he pinned the grinning culprit with a glare so fierce the creature stumbled back in fear. With a roar of rage, Astorion ran at the orc, hacking repeatedly at the weapon it feebly raised to protect itself. His bright Elven steel shattered the blackened metal and cleaved into foul flesh. With teeth bared, Astorion sank the blade deeper, watching the life leave his enemy's eyes and uttering a seething litany of ancient Silvan malediction to speed the creature on its way. A flash of familiar blonde hair caught his eye. Thranduil had left the safety of the trees. _Again not where he is meant to be_. Astorion growled in frustration and fought his way nearer, carving a gruesome path through the orcs that stood in his way.

The Elvenking was a whirl of pale hair and slashing silver as he defended two wounded guards behind him, a pained expression upon his face. His teeth were clenched and his dark brows were furrowed in anger, making him fearsome to behold as he wielded his ancient Noldorin blade. Thranduil fought with effortless grace, like a dancer dealing out death and beauty in equal measure. There was no movement wasted, no opportunity for attack missed. He met his enemies with surety and poise, a serene ferocity that bolstered those fighting around him. Seeing their King in their midst, the Forest Guard found renewed vigour and rallied to his position, merciless in their slaughter of the remaining orcs. As their numbers dwindled a few of the surviving orcs attempted to flee or drag themselves away, but the enraged Elves ensured none survived.

Astorion lowered his sword and surveyed the damage around him, taking stock of the dead and wounded. He strolled towards Thranduil, cleaning his sword with a bit of tattered cloth ripped from an orc's back. His gaze raked over the King from head to toe checking for injury. Thranduil's pale cheeks were splattered with black blood, as were his hands and his hair. He still appeared to be in pain, though none of his own blood was apparent, and he was looking at the sword in his hand as if it had betrayed him. _Where is the other?_ Thranduil's eyes snapped to the Steward as he approached.

"Take it, Astorion," he whispered so none but his Steward may hear. "Please take it."

"Take what?"

"The sword! Take the damned sword," he hissed through clenched teeth.

Astorion sheathed his own blade and took hold of Thranduil's. The King breathed a sigh of relief and flexed the hand that had held the sword while Astorion looked on curiously. "You are in pain. Are you injured?"

Thranduil shook his head, still studying his right hand. "It does not appear so." He raised his gaze to his Steward's face and saw the question in those dark eyes. "The glove. I left it behind at the stream." His explanation only deepened Astorion's curiosity. Thranduil heaved a sigh and caught sight of his guards patiently awaiting his attention. "I will explain when we are alone. Just...keep hold of it for now."

"As you wish, _aran nin_ ," Astorion murmured with a bow. He began wiping the blade down as he watched Thranduil greet his Forest Guard. His attention was not focused on the words spoken as the King debriefed his guards and assessed their injuries but on Thranduil himself. Outwardly he appeared as he always did - composed and regal - but Astorion knew otherwise.

Thranduil listened intently to his guards, questioning them when he deemed necessary and giving each individual his personal thanks before walking slowly to where the two fallen Elves had been laid. He knelt between them, his hands resting over their hearts as he quietly spoke the traditional words of a long farewell in their native Silvan. He bowed his head and closed his eyes, silvery hair falling over his shoulders as he let his sorrow entwine with that of the forest. The trees mourned the loss of their protectors; the Elvenking mourned the loss of those he was meant to protect. As the anguished Song filled his heart, he let the words spill from his lips, singing along with a melody only he could hear. The Forest Guard encircled their King and their fallen brethren, some with tears flowing freely but all of them filled with a fierce, undying loyalty to the King who had bloodied his hands to defend them, to save them. _This_ was the Elvenking they followed, the Elvenking they revered - dressed as one of their own, splattered with the black blood of their enemies, and kneeling in the dirt mourning the loss of two simple soldiers. He was one of them, a part of their forest as surely as the trees themselves, and they loved him all the more for it.

Astorion planted the tip of Thranduil's blade in the ground and stood with one hand resting atop the pommel and the other resting over the burning, bleeding wound in his side. His heart ached for the loss of ones so young yet at the same time, it was filled with an immeasurable pride as he observed his King. He bowed his head and whispered his own words of farewell to the fallen as he listened to Thranduil's haunting song and, not for the first time, wished that Oropher were here to witness the King his son had become, to see the devotion that lit the eyes of those who served him. The Steward felt the unexpected sting of tears in his eyes. Whatever was ailing Thranduil, he would find the answers. The Elvenking could not be lost. Astorion shuddered to think what would happen to the forest, to the Silvan people without him. It would be a loss unimaginable.

o0o0o

 **Tbc...**

 **A/N** : _Well, the plot thickens and the mystery deepens, the shadow grows (or not), and poor Astorion has a booboo. We've also discovered that the Elvenking is in dire need of more hugs. Any volunteers? Surely there must be a few..._

 _I do apologise for the long delay between chapters and hope you enjoyed the latest update. Please feel free to leave a vote or a comment and let me know what you think. I'd love to hear from you! I always enjoy connecting with readers and appreciate all who have read, commented, or voted so far. Thank you for reading! Until next time..._

 _ **Helpful Definitions:**_

 _Aran nin - my king_

 _Ellon - male elf_

 _Peredhel - half-elf_

 _ **fëa**_ _\- soul_

 _Yrch - orcs_


	16. Author's Note

**Author's Note**

The next chapter, _Fealty and Failure_ , will be posted **Friday the 17th of January**. I know updates for this story are painfully slow but I'd like to assure my readers that, even if it doesn't seem like it sometimes, this story **will** be completed. I've no intention of abandoning it. I love it too much to leave it unfinished. I'll be working on editing and rearranging earlier chapters as well as writing new chapters, though I probably won't re-post any of the earlier, edited chapters until I complete the story. It's a big job and I'd rather concentrate more on going forward than spend too much time revising what's already been written.

The delays between posts are completely my fault. I chase my inspiration whenever it strikes and over the past year, that inspiration has led me to create three other novels (among other things). I've been working more on my original stories than this poor, beloved (and neglected) fanfic and for that, I feel I should apologise. Perhaps I should have finished this first but that's just not how my creativity flows. It must seem that I'm doing nothing (or everything **but** updating) but rest assured, behind the scenes I'm working so hard. Between the tragedies I've experienced this year, my real-life responsibilities, two kids, one rambunctious toddler, and a much-neglected social life, I juggle my many writing projects and other hobbies. I regret that _The Time of Growing_ has fallen by the wayside but as I said, I follow where my inspiration leads and it has led me to some fascinating new stories that I'm excited to write.

Thank you to every one of you who've read this story so far, whether you be commenters or silent shadow readers. I appreciate your support and the fact that you've stuck with me during the writing drought of 2019. May 2020 be more fertile. I'm sure the trees of Middle-earth would appreciate that.

Much love,

Leeann


	17. Fealty and Failure

Astorion drew in a hiss of breath and directed a muttered swear to the young guard kneeling at his side. The raven feathers and beads of onyx braided into the guard's auburn hair indicated his position as healer. The symbols permanently inked onto the backs of his hands marked him as a healer of high standing, but not high enough to avoid the Steward's growing ire.

Astorion's grumbling went unheeded. The healer's nimble fingers never paused in their ministrations. He pressed at the slice in Astorion's side, inspecting it carefully and wiping away the seeping blood with a pad of coarse gauze, then doused the open wound with a mixture of cold water and stinging astringent herbs.

"Must you be so rough?" Astorion's patience with being poked and prodded was at an end.

The healer stopped his work long enough to cut a glance at his patient's stormy expression, a spark of humour glinting in his bright green eyes. "Well, my lord, I _must_ be certain there is no debris within and I _must_ cleanse the wound thoroughly. The blades of the enemy are often tainted with filth." He turned his attention back to the task at hand. "If you desired the touch of a more gentle healer perhaps you should have remained behind the palace walls."

"Behind the -? Enough!" Astorion batted the offending hands away from his side. "Rest assured, Heledíl Maldírion, your sister will hear of your impertinence upon my return."

The guard sat back on his heels with a smirk, stuffing unused supplies back into a pouch at his belt. "Aye, I've no doubt. And I've no doubt she'll tell you the same as I."

Astorion's lips twitched as he looked away.

"That will need stitching," Heledíl said in a more serious tone with a nod towards Astorion's side. "If you would lie back, my lord, I will attend you."

Astorion snorted. "Not bloody likely. I believe I will wait for the touch of a more gentle healer." His thoughts strayed momentarily to Laleithien with her shining copper tresses and laughing hazel eyes. "Now off with you. There are others who need your attention more than I. Go torture them and leave me be."

"As you wish, my lord, though I was only doing the King's bidding. I will leave you to your misery." Heledíl gave Astorion a stern look before pressing a folded square of gauze into the Steward's hand along with a length of bandage for tying. "Please see that you do not bleed out before you make it back to Laleithien. She can be most frightening in her anger and I would rather not incur her wrath...or the King's." He rose to his feet, bowing with a courtly flourish and a sarcastic grin.

The Steward watched him go with a shake of his head, not bothering to stand. Gently, he pressed the thick pad of cloth to his wound, staunching the trickling flow of blood and holding it in place as he wrapped the long bandage several times around his waist. He gritted his teeth as he tied the ends tightly then redressed in his discarded tunic, careful not to aggravate his wound. Such a simple task felt like an inordinate amount of exertion, so much so that beads of cold sweat now glistened on his forehead. He leaned back against the tree behind him with a weary sigh, grateful for its support.

 _Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to rest here a while longer._

He laid a protective hand over his bandaged side. Breathing slowly and deeply, he willed his tense abdominal muscles to relax, easing a bit of his pain. His dark eyes drifted around the clearing, searching for some form of distraction while he waited for the King and tried not to dwell on the niggling worry lurking at the back of his mind.

A beam of sunlight glinting off silvery hair drew his eye and brought a small smile to his lips. The Elvenking stood with hands clasped behind his back and shoulders straight, a pale beacon amongst the shorter, darker Silvan guards. It made no difference that he was without his finery and garbed in the muted tones of the forest. His regality was innate and undeniable. Astorion studied the King's profile, noting the tense jaw and drawn brows, the only outward signs of his distress. He knew just how deep that distress ran, no matter how well the King hid it. Wincing, the Steward shifted his weight slightly, unwilling to draw attention to his growing discomfort. Thranduil was burdened with enough worry and he did not wish to add to it.

Astorion let his eyes wander from guard to guard, observing their expressions and catching snippets of murmured conversation. He remembered well his days in the Forest Guard, long before Oropher and his Sindar came to the wood. Few remained of those he had served with during his youth. Most had left these shores one way or another - either by ship or by sword. Those still living had moved on to more peaceful pursuits, leaving the fighting to the younger, less battle-weary generations. It was times like these when Astorion felt the weight of his years. He often wondered if perhaps he had lingered here too long, if he should have sailed and found his rest. He glanced back to Thranduil, remembering the vows that bound him and the faces of the ones who had so easily drawn the words from his lips. Astorion sighed. No, there would be no ship for him unless Thranduil was on it. He would follow his King to whatever end.

Astorion let his head fall back against the tree behind him. He watched Heledíl for a while, trying to pick out the similarities between the rough-handed guard and his gentle sister. The beginnings of a smile quirked Astorion's lips but he caught it before it could spread. He begrudgingly admired the efficient skill with which the Silvan healer stitched up a long gash on the arm of another guard. Sensing he was being observed, Heledíl looked up, meeting Astorion's dark gaze with a frown of concern. His keen healer's eyes flicked over the Steward, noting his pallor and sheen of perspiration. Astorion narrowed his eyes and gave a slight shake of his head. Heledíl's frown deepened but he returned his attention to the wounded guard sitting stoically before him.

 _He knows._

Astorion could only hope that the healer would keep his suspicions to himself and not trouble the King with an unnecessary report on the seriousness of his wound. It pained him more than it should, burning like a slow-spreading fire simmering beneath his skin. His head ached, pounding with every beat of his heart, and the beginnings of nausea churned his gut - all tell-tale symptoms he could not ignore. He stifled a groan, mentally cursing orcs and their proclivity for poison.

He had unleashed his wrath on the pathetic creature who had cut him, dispatching it perhaps more cruelly than necessary while uttering dark words that had not left his tongue in an age. Still, his anger lingered, though it was now directed more at himself for the momentary lapse in concentration that had allowed the beast's blade to touch him in the first place. It was not the first time he had been poisoned but it had been a long time since, and that long time had dulled the memory of just how miserable it was. He was certain he would survive...mostly certain...as long as he made it back to the healing ward and Laleithien's skilled hands in time. Astorion closed his eyes, resigning himself to a long, excruciating walk home.

o0o

The Elvenking stood in a patch of shifting sunlight, painfully aware that he could still feel its warmth while the dead before him could not. He had served with both of the fallen long ago during his time in the Forest Guard and even briefly during the Battle of the Last Alliance. He looked on, expressionless, as the two brothers were laid on make-shift litters for their final journey home. Their captain, Eluon, knelt beside each of them in turn, carefully cleaning away the blood and arranging their limbs into some semblance of peaceful repose. How many times had Thranduil himself wiped away the signs of battle from pale, still faces? How many lives had slipped through his fingers? He had stopped counting long ago.

The remaining guards in the glade had fallen silent as they waited respectfully for their captain to attend the dead, though few words had been spoken between them since the earlier skirmish. Quickly and methodically they had fashioned the litters, collected their arrows from enemy corpses, and tended the wounded. Now the guards would undertake the solemn task of carrying the fallen brothers back home and laying them to rest, returning their bodies to the earth where they would nourish in death the trees they had so loved in life.

Eluon finally rose to his feet, satisfied with his work, and gave a nod to the King. Thranduil bowed low to the dead, one hand over his heart, and spoke the names of the fallen to the trees.

"Arion. Alinar _._ "

The others in the clearing followed suit, bowing in respect and sending the names of the dead to drift away on the forest breeze.

Thranduil frowned slightly at the hand he pulled away from his heart, studying its blackened fingertips before quickly tucking it away behind his back. He lifted his chin, trying to convince himself of the veracity of Astorion's earlier words:

" _There is nothing there...There is no darkness upon you, no darkness within you...You are the Elvenking...You are untainted."_

Thranduil heaved a sigh, drawing a concerned glance from Eluon, but one imperiously arched brow was all it took to send the captain's attention elsewhere. Surely someone would have reacted in some way if his skin was truly stained.

 _Or would they?_ _Would they dare?_

Not a soul had looked upon him with anything other than the usual reverence and respect. There were no suspicious glances, no horrified expressions. Thranduil wished to believe that Astorion spoke the truth, that these dark stains did not mar his skin. He did not know which was worse: bearing the stain of evil or seeing things that were not there. The thought set his heart pounding. He squeezed his eyes shut and tilted his face towards the heavens, sending a silent plea to the Valar.

He drew in a calming breath and exhaled it slowly, relaxing the fists clenched behind his back and composing himself before opening his eyes. His icy gaze roamed the faces of those within the glade, discreetly assessing each guard and trying to determine if his momentary weakness had been observed. None seemed to be paying him any particular attention, though all were vigilant and wary after the attack.

Thranduil took great pride in his Forest Guard and their determination to face any foe that crept up from the southern reaches. In the centuries since he had served within their ranks, the forest had become much darker and more dangerous but the Forest Guard never wavered. Its numbers swelled with Sindar and Silvan alike, all willing to lay down their lives for the protection of their beloved _Eryn Galen_ and its people. They had a well-earned reputation for ruthlessness in battle, even among the other Elven realms. That reputation had been proven true on the Dagorlad when they fought under his father's command, though more than half the army had perished before the end. "Savages" they had been called by some of their kin there, the Noldor in particular. "More dangerous and less wise" they had been called by the Men. Thranduil scoffed at the notion.

 _What do Men know anyway? Dangerous, yes, but less wise?_

The Silvan merely possessed wisdom of a different kind - wisdom gleaned from nature itself, not ancient scrolls hoarded by ancient Elves.

It was true that the more "untamed" Silvans made up the majority of the Forest Guard, those who preferred to dwell under tree and star as their ancestors had rather than accept a place in Thranduil's halls. They still upheld the ancient ways, still performed the old rituals woven with words so powerful they could stir the very forest itself. They inked their skin with patterns of sacred symbols and words, and they adorned themselves with feathers, polished bits of stone and carved bone. It lent them an air of deadly wildness, an otherness that set them apart from the Sindar within their ranks. Thranduil was sure their counterparts in Lothlórien observed many of the same practices, especially the Marchwardens who spent the majority of their time amongst the trees, though as a whole the Lothlórien Elves were more subtle about it and less wild in their nature.

 _Eryn Galen's_ Silvan population took pride in keeping their vibrant traditions alive and had been encouraged to do so by Thranduil's father. Despite the disapproval of his peers, Oropher had been an enthusiastic participant in all of their celebrations and traditions, even down to the inking of his skin - a thing unheard of and quite scandalous among the Sindar nobility. Oropher had been invited to receive the marks of kingship when he had taken up the crown. He had humbly accepted, sitting unflinching and without complaint for hours as the intricate pattern was pricked into his skin. During the Battle of the Last Alliance, Thranduil too had been marked by his fellow warriors, even more so than his father. Graceful lines of flowing Silvan design trailed down his back and across his shoulders and chest, mingling with ancient symbols and knotted patterns. Words of warding and words of strength banded his upper arms and his thighs and, upon his father's death, the mark of kingship had been added over his heart.

After witnessing the mindless brutality of the enemy during the nightmare of the Dagorlad, all Elves of _Eryn Galen_ who had not been marked, whether Silvan or Sindar, soon chose to be. The markings bolstered their spirits and reminded them of what they left behind but more importantly, they served to identify their remains should the worst befall them. The enemy was merciless in its butchery, whether the victims be living or dead, high-born King or simple soldier. Oftentimes the personalised markings were the only way to know who they were burying.

Thranduil inhaled a ragged breath and shook off the heavy memories of war, dragging himself from the shadows of the past and back into the present. He glanced in Astorion's direction, automatically seeking the Steward's steady, comforting presence. Astorion sat leaning against a tree, his head tilted back and his eyes closed, one hand resting lightly over the wound on his side. He looked a bit too pale for Thranduil's liking and the fact that he was seated was troubling, but at least the healer had attended him despite Astorion's protests.

The Elvenking crossed the clearing with long strides to stand before his Steward, observing the sheen of perspiration on his brow with a slight frown.

"Are you well?" He lowered himself to one knee and peered more closely at his Steward's face.

"Aye, my King. Well enough," the Steward replied without opening his eyes. "Forgive me for not rising to receive you."

Thranduil scoffed. "I would rather you stay seated. You look terrible."

Astorion opened his eyes only wide enough to give an effective scowl. "Thank you for your kindness, my lord. Are we ready to depart?"

Thranduil surveyed the activity in the clearing before answering. "Yes, I believe so. Eluon's company will bear the brothers back to their village and see them returned to the earth. They had no family left on these shores. It is fitting they died together, for one alone would not long survive his grief." The King returned his gaze to his Steward who watched him with shrewd, dark eyes.

"You wish to go with them."

Thranduil sighed and rose to his feet. "Of course I do, but I know I cannot."

"No, you cannot," Astorion grunted as he heaved himself into a standing position, ignoring Thranduil's outstretched hand and the dizziness that brought little points of darkness into his vision. He held himself very still until the dizziness passed, disliking Thranduil's conspicuous scrutiny. "How is your hand?"

"My hand?"

"Aye, it seemed to pain you during the fight." He motioned to the sword now hanging at Thranduil's hip. Astorion had cleaned it thoroughly and returned it to the King before Heledíl tended him, but Thranduil had yet to explain his strange behaviour when handling it. "Why did you leave the other behind? It is rare indeed for you to arm yourself with only one of the pair."

His attempt to divert the King's attention seemed successful. Much to the Steward's grim satisfaction, the King appeared to be disconcerted by his question. At least his attention was temporarily drawn from Astorion's own ailment.

Thranduil glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot while he thought of what to say, then met Astorion's calculating gaze.

"I had only one good hand when I left the palace, so I brought only one sword."

Astorion took a step closer, speaking quietly. "You said you would explain when we were alone. We are alone. If something ails you, Thranduil, I wish to know of it."

The King huffed a short, humourless laugh. "Yes, I could say the same of you. I know what you are trying to do, Astorion, and it will not work."

Astorion merely lifted one dark brow in response.

"We will discuss this upon our return if you still wish it, but not here. Not now."

"Very well then, my King." Astorion gave a tight smile and pulled his cloak from a nearby branch, draping it over his broad shoulders with a flourish. "Shall we depart? Time runs short and I must see Laleithien upon our return. And so should you." He gave the King a pointed look.

Thranduil did not relish the thought of explaining himself to his copper-haired healer but if anyone had answers or knew where to look for them, it would be Laleithien. He paused mid-thought as his mind suddenly grasped his Steward's other words.

"What do you mean, 'time runs short'?"

Astorion carefully brushed bits of forest debris from his clothing to avoid meeting Thranduil's sharp eyes. The King would not be pleased.

"We are expected back within a reasonable time, else your sudden departure will no longer remain a private affair. Himdír has instructions to seek out Brannam if neither of us returns."

Thranduil swore sharply. "This was not meant to be a Council matter. I simply -"

"Thranduil, you are _King_ ," Astorion snapped in a harsh whisper. "You cannot _simply_ do anything. What were we to think? Our King had disappeared, leaving a bloody mess behind him and no indication of what he intended. What else was I to do? You have no heirs, and if neither of us returned, Valar forbid, it is up to the Silvan people and Brannam as their Chieftain to select a new ruler. I have kept this as quiet as I can for as long as I can, given you as much time as I can." Astorion paused and calmed himself, laying his hand over his side and swiping the perspiration from his brow. He immediately regretted his sharp words.

"You are right of course," Thranduil murmured, glancing away across the clearing.

Astorion sighed. "Forgive me. I did not mean to speak harshly. I am not in the best form."

The King arched a brow. "Are you not? I had not noticed."

His sarcastic tone was not lost on the Steward, though Astorion chose to ignore it. "We should go. Himdír will most likely send out another search party if we are much delayed and I doubt this search would go unnoticed."

"Another?"

"Yes, another. Did you think he would not send the Royal Guard to search for you? It was done with the utmost discretion, I can assure you, though they were bound to fail."

"Bound to fail indeed," Thranduil scoffed. "I selected them myself, Astorion, for their loyalty and discretion, for their skill in battle. They are the best warriors in _Eryn Galen_."

"Yet useless at tracking you," came the muttered reply.

"Come now, Steward. Everyone is useless at tracking me. Except you."

Astorion gave a smug smirk. The King narrowed his eyes and regarded his Steward in thoughtful silence.

Astorion's smirk slowly faded as the silence lengthened until a small frown of concern took its place. "Why do you look at me so? What are you thinking?"

"I am thinking you will not like what I am about to do."

The frown deepened as Astorion's suspicion grew. "Why? What are you about to do?"

Thranduil looked away, his eyes searching, then beckoned over his chosen subject with a regal gesture. Astorion turned his head slowly to follow the King's line of sight.

 _Heledíl_.

The healer had a somewhat startled look on his face as he uncrossed his arms and pushed himself away from the tree he had been leaning against. He glanced over his shoulder in an almost comical fashion to be sure it was indeed he who was being summoned.

"Thranduil…," Astorion began in a warning tone. "Do not do this."

"Do you think to command me, Steward?" The question was asked quietly, the King repeating his words from their earlier meeting with a raised brow.

Heledíl arrived just as Astorion opened his mouth to answer. The Steward swallowed the retort he had thought to give, repeating with resignation his own earlier words instead. "Not in the company of others, no. I would not dream of it."

Thranduil smiled tightly. "Good."

"My King," Heledíl said with a deep bow. "How may I serve you?"

Thranduil acknowledged the auburn-haired guard with a nod then fixed his pale gaze on his Steward _._ "You may tell me what ails my Steward."

Heledíl glanced between his King and the Steward, sensing the tension, and cursed his poor luck for being brought into whatever was transpiring. He realised with a sinking sensation that either one or both of them were sure to be displeased with his answers.

He threw an apologetic glance at Astorion before answering. "He has a bruised rib, possibly two, and a significant laceration which requires stitching, my King, but…"

Thranduil arched an eyebrow, prompting the healer to continue.

"...but he refused to allow me to stitch it."

"Did he indeed?" Thranduil asked in mock surprise, his eyes still locked with Astorion's. "And why would my Steward refuse to be stitched?"

Astorion's jaw twitched, his lips drawn into a thin line.

Heledíl glanced between the two again, wetting his lips, and decided to come to the Steward's defence. "I do believe he wanted my supplies to be used on the injured guards rather than himself, my King. Our thread is indeed in short supply with the rise in attacks and we had several who required stitching."

Thranduil looked sharply at the healer. "I was not aware of a shortage of medical supplies. Is this the case with all patrols or only yours?"

"I believe it affects all but those in the northern reaches, my King. We supplement our supplies from nearby villages whenever necessary."

"I will speak to Lord Noenor and see that your supplies are increased. It will no longer be necessary to take from the villages."

"Thank you, my King."

Thranduil's eyes drifted back to Astorion. He did his best to maintain a neutral expression and not smirk at Astorion's simmering anger. "Is there anything else I should know about the state of my Steward's health?"

Heledíl was silent, weighing the wisdom of his next statement. "I suspect…"

"You suspect what." The words were spoken with a deceptive calm, but it was clear in the way they were enunciated that the King was displeased.

Heledíl swallowed the lump of nervousness in this throat. "I suspect the Lord Steward has been poisoned by the orc's blade," he said in a rush, not daring to look at Astorion.

Astorion opened his mouth to speak but the Elvenking held up a silencing hand.

"I share your suspicion. Heledíl, is it?"

"Yes, my King."

Thranduil studied him for a moment. "You are Laleithien's brother."

"Yes, my King."

"And you chose to join the ranks of the Forest Guard instead of accepting your father's seat on my Council and his position in the Healing Halls."

"Yes, my King." Heledíl gave the King a lopsided grin, his trepidation forgotten. "Laleithien is far better suited to it than I. I've no wish to be confined behind palace walls." He glanced at Astorion with mischief in his eyes. "Though my sister seems to enjoy her... _position_ on the Council very much."

"Indeed." Thranduil raised a brow, unable to suppress the amusement in his voice or the quirk of his lips when he saw the flush that stained his Steward's pale face and pinkened the tips of his ears. "The... _Council_ is fortunate to have one such as she. I am sure she will have stern words for my Steward upon his return."

Astorion turned his head away from Thranduil's infuriating smirk and Heledíl's laughing eyes. "If you are quite finished, my King, we should be on our way. We are expected."

"Yes, some of us more anxiously than others."

Astorion crossed his arms, as much as it pained him to do so, and waited impatiently for the King's permission to depart.

"And here is the part you will not like," Thranduil said in warning, receiving a dark and suspicious glare from his Steward. "Heledíl, see that a litter is built for the Steward. You and one other of your choosing will escort him back to the palace while I go on ahead. This must be done with all due haste. Stubbornness alone will not delay the black poison of the orcs, though it may sustain him long enough to see the fury on your sister's face. We will rely instead on your speed and skill. Go now, and send your captain to me."

Heledíl placed one hand over his heart and gave a deep bow. "It will be done, my King. I will not fail you. Or my sister," he added, giving the Steward a cheeky wink. He sprinted across the glade, calling to one of his companions who followed him without question.

Thranduil met his Steward's glare with one of his own. "I did say you would not like it."

"Thranduil - "

"Do not fight me on this, Astorion. Walking will only speed the poison. You would not survive the journey back, no matter how stubborn you are." Thranduil paused, frowning as he looked his Steward over.

Astorion wore his anger openly. His dark eyes glittered with it and his lips were pressed tightly into a hard line. Thranduil could tell he was biting the inside of his lip in an effort not to speak.

Thranduil sighed, his expression softening slightly. "I have no wish to lose you. You would be impossible to replace." It was as close to an open admission of affection the King would give.

Astorion looked away with a sigh of his own, his anger lessening whether he willed it or not.

"Tarphen would never cease hounding me for your position, you know, though I would rather give it to Melehil or Idhrephen." He paused, gazing off into the distance with feigned thoughtfulness. "Idhraphen _is_ the most tolerable I suppose. He is an excellent conversationalist, though a bit long-winded. At least there would be no lull in conversation over dinner. And his knowledge of foreign affairs is exemplary." Thranduil glanced at Astorion, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards in a sly grin. "Or perhaps Laleithien."

The Steward's shoulders stiffened at the mention of her name but he refused to look at the King.

Thranduil clasped his hands behind his back and paced a leisurely circuit, casting an occasional glance in Astorion's direction. "I find her company most agreeable. She is wise and worthy of the title of Steward. Apparently even worthy of the title of Queen, according to Tarphen. Did you know she was on his latest list of approved _elleth_?

"I am aware."

"Ah. Of course, you are. Apparently, he and his cohorts would approve of a Silvan bride as long as she is a Silvan with a high enough status. Imagine that."

"Yes, imagine that."

"You do not seem happy with the prospect."

Astorion was silent.

"That settles it then. You must live. You must continue as my Steward in order to avoid Tarphen's ultimate banishment and to save Laleithien from an unhappy marriage to an _ellon_ she does not love."

Astorion's lips twitched. He shook his head. "You are insufferable."

"So you say. And quite often, I might add. Not very Stewardly of you."

Astorion finally looked at his King and snorted inelegantly. "Would you rather that mindless sycophant Tarphen?"

"Of course not. I would rather Laleithien than either of you but alas," he spread his hands, "here we are." A smile tugged at Thranduil's lips as his Steward struggled to maintain a stern expression. "You will do this for me, yes? You will allow Heledíl to escort you back."

Astorion regarded him for a long, silent moment before answering in a subdued tone. "Yes, my King, I will do as you ask." He bowed slightly, refusing to acknowledge the pain burning in his side as he moved or the nausea roiling in his gut.

"Command, my Lord Steward. I did not ask. I commanded." Thranduil gave his Steward a smug smile and a curt nod before striding away to meet the approaching captain.

"Commanded," Astorion muttered under his breath.

Rather ungracefully, he lowered himself to sit upon one of the roots at the base of the tree. He could hear Thranduil issuing orders to Eluon as the pair slowly walked away. Astorion narrowed his eyes. He must remember to have a word with the captain himself and ensure that none present would speak of the King's unexpected excursion. Eluon and his guards would keep silent, Astorion had no doubt. The Steward smiled grimly as he attempted to make himself more comfortable. The loyalty of the Forest Guard was absolute. They were as bound to the Elvenking as he was and to Astorion, that was a comforting thought.

o0o

 _ **Vales of the Anduin**_

Forthwine had wanted him to flee, to carry a warning back to the waiting Éothéod. Osric had truly meant to obey his Lord's last command. He had reluctantly turned the horses around and galloped away but the war cries of his friends had called him back. He could not let them stand alone. He released the other two horses with the hope they would return home and serve as some sort of warning to his people, then rode hard back towards his embattled friends. He leapt from his horse near the cluster of boulders that had previously hidden them from the monster's sight, but the horror of what he saw froze him in place.

Éomon had been sent flying by one of the sentient yew trees and was lying in a crumpled heap. Forthwine struggled against roots and vines that ensnared his legs, but could not free himself to help their fallen friend. Osric cried out his denial, unheard by his friends but drawing the eye of the bearded tree monster. He dove behind the boulders before he could be seen. The hands gripping his axe sweated inside their leather gloves as he panted, eyes wide and heart pounding.

 _Get up. Get up!_

But his legs would not obey. His blood felt like ice in his veins when he heard the monster speak, raising the hairs on the nape of his neck.

"Do you think to escape, or do you know you have come to die?"

 _Is it speaking to me?_

He heard Forthwine's defiant reply. "I do not fear death, monster. I will go gladly to the halls of my fathers knowing I have wounded you."

Osric squeezed his eyes shut. His friends needed him.

 _Get up, you coward!_

The monster made a rumbling noise deep within its throat. "But you have not wounded me, not enough. Will he go gladly as well, or will he fight it?"

Osric's eyes flew open.

 _Does it mean me? Are they coming?_

He forced himself to peer over the tops of the boulders, soon wishing he hadn't. The two yew loomed over Éomon, watching as his wounded friend attempted to drag himself towards the sword lying in the grass nearby. Forthwine struggled frantically but to no avail. He could not hear the words his friends spoke to each other but he saw the resignation on Éomon's face.

"No," he whispered.

His denial did nothing to stop the nearest yew from lifting its leg and stomping Éomon into the ground again and again until only a bloody mess remained. The tremors shook the earth beneath his feet and, as much as he wanted to, he could not look away. He watched apprehensively as the bearded monster lifted Forthwine from the ground and held him close to its face.

"Do you see now? Do you see that your kind cannot win? Do you see your end?"

Osric stood on legs that felt too weak to hold him, his hope of saving his friends vanishing.

"I see nothing of the sort. I see only a _tree,"_ Forthwine said, raising his axe. "And trees can be _cut_!"

Forthwine threw the axe with a defiant yell. It flew true and embedded itself in one of the creature's luminous green eyes. The monster roared in pain, flailing its arms as it stumbled back, but Forthwine remained trapped in its grip. The creature pulled the axe from its eye and flung it away. Osric followed its arcing path through the air, the early morning sun glinting off bright metal.

His eyes snapped back to the monster holding his friend. It drew Forthwine nearer to its face. Osric was sure it was going to bite him in half but instead, it bellowed its rage, a green mist pouring from its remaining glowing eye and a viscous black liquid oozing from its mouth and crawling over its skin. Osric's axe fell from his slack fingers, all hope for survival lost.

 _How can I defeat such a thing? How can I fight it?_

A peal of mad, strangled laughter carried to him when the monster ceased its roaring. Forthwine was laughing fearlessly in the face of his own death, increasing Osric's burning shame. Osric opened his mouth to call out, to let Forthwine know he was not alone in his last moments, that he would be avenged, but his words died in a whisper as the horrible sounds of choking gasps and bones breaking could be heard. The oily blackness that oozed from the creature crept along its hide and made its way to Forthwine, covering his skin and filling his mouth. Osric sank to his knees and leaned his forehead against the cool stone of the boulder. He couldn't watch anymore, couldn't forgive his own cowardice that kept him rooted to the spot. Where was the vengeance that had burned so brightly in his blood? Where was the bravery that had made him so sure they could destroy this impossible creature? It had deserted him, just as he had deserted his friends. He was ashamed, completely and utterly ashamed.

How could he redeem himself? He could fling himself at the monsters, dying in hopeless battle as his friends had, or he could ride away and tell Forthwine's father and sons of his demise, warn his people of the horror that lurked in the Vales of the Anduin.

He rose to his feet, watching over the tops of the boulders as the bearded monster dropped Forthwine's lifeless body to the ground. It looked down at its victim, its beard swaying gently in the breeze as it studied its handiwork, then turned to walk over to the waiting yew. They followed behind the creature as it neared the forest but it stopped abruptly, halting the yew in their tracks. The three of them stood for some time in silence, staring at the forest. They rumbled to each other occasionally, the deep melodic sounds much like a conversation or a song, and creaked like trees in the wind as they swayed slightly.

 _Death is better than living in shame. I've nothing left to lose._

Osric swallowed hard though his throat was dry. Decision made, he retrieved his axe from the ground, hefting its familiar weight easily and turning it until his fingers fit into their well-worn grooves. He crept slowly in the monsters' direction, treading as quietly as he could. His face was set in grim determination, painted with the dried blood of the son and the brother he had lost in the previous night's attack.

 _I should have died with them last night. I should have died today with my friends._

He glanced up at the early morning sky and felt the blood cracking and pulling at his skin as his mouth curved into half a grin.

 _There's still time. They wait for me now._

He held his axe at the ready as he approached and was nearly a stone's throw away before the great bearded monster turned to face him. Osric froze. Its eye was different now, not the glowing green that it had been but a deep, warm amber. A dark, sap-like liquid bled from its closed wounded eye. The creature watched him curiously, frowning at the axe he held. The two yew stood watchful yet unmoving, silent sentinels behind the one who had created them.

"I have come to die," Osric said quietly, his voice sounding distant in his own ears.

The creature raised its bushy brows. "Come to die? Hoom, well now. How like a Man to be so hasty." It bent a bit lower, turning its head to the side to peer at him with its one good eye. "Perhaps you should go back to your own people, little Man. There are only Elves this way," it said, gesturing towards the forest, "and Elves don't like folk dying on their doorstep."

"What?" Osric blinked, bewildered. He frowned and pointed his axe to the sea of trees in the near distance. "Those Elves have watched my people die on their doorstep for years and did nothing to stop it. They don't seem to give a shit one way or another. And it didn't stop you and your pets from murdering my friends over there!" He flung his arm in the direction of his friends' bodies, unsure if he was feeling bolder or simply impatient for his imminent death.

The monster straightened and stroked its mossy beard, looking down at him in surprise. "Murder, you say! Barrarruuum." The creature rumbled in its throat, frowning as it spoke a long string of words Osric did not understand.

"Aye, murder. And you shall have to murder me too, _Fellroot_ , for I shall not let you leave this place unscathed!"

With a ragged cry, Osric charged. The creature swatted him with one long arm, knocking the breath from his lungs with the impact. He felt himself flying weightlessly through the air until he collided hard with the ground, tumbling and rolling until his body came to a stop. He lay there, staring up at the clear sky and gasping for breath. There was a sharp pain in his chest, the familiar pain of broken ribs, and his shoulder felt dislocated. He sucked air into his emptied lungs with short, shallow breaths, cursing silently and waiting patiently to be crushed like Éomon. He felt the ground tremble beneath his back as the monster approached and leaned over him.

"Fellroot indeed!" the creature grumbled. A thick drop of dark liquid dripped from its eye onto Osric's face. "Barrarruuum. Leave this place, axe bringer. Go back to your people. Find another place to die and speak no more to me of _murder_." The monster gave him one final disgusted look before it began its slow march towards Mirkwood, rumbling a nonsensical song as it went:

 _The age of man is done,  
The time of growing has come.  
Beware the forests and green places.  
Beware the walking trees with faces.  
Strength once lost has now been found  
By the roots within the ground._

 _Stones will break and roots will squeeze,  
Vines will grow and bend all knees;  
Mushrooms hunt and thorns yoke,  
Weeds strangle and flowers choke.  
The age of skin is done.  
The hour of bark has come._

Osric lay there helplessly and watched them go. He was alive, regrettably so, and because of his cowardice, his closest friends had perished. Hot tears spilled down his filthy cheeks as he let loose a hoarse, keening wail filled with rage, despair and regret. The pain of his shame and the pain of his ribs mingled in his chest until he could not separate one from the other.

o0o

Thranduil was ready to be on his way. He had just accepted his bow from Eluon, secured it across his back and turned to go when he felt it - the abrupt silencing of the forest's Song. The captain's voice droned on for a moment longer before he realised something was amiss.

"My King? Are you well?" Eluon repeated his question, but Thranduil did not answer. The Elvenking stared beyond him into the trees, his head cocked to one side, a small frown upon his brow.

Thranduil was holding his breath...listening, waiting, just as the forest was waiting.

Eluon glanced to Astorion for help. The Steward rose to his feet with difficulty and approached slowly, one hand over the wound in his side. He placed his other hand on the King's shoulder and leaned close to speak quietly in his ear.

"What do you hear?" He watched for a reaction but received none. "Thranduil?" He gave the King's shoulder a slight shake. "What do you hear?"

Thranduil turned wide eyes to his Steward, ignoring the presence of Eluon altogether. "Nothing," came the whispered reply. "I hear nothing. The Song has stopped, just like last night. The forest is silent."

Astorion glanced to the captain, silently signalling him to have his guards ready for an attack. Eluon nodded his understanding and lifted his arm, passing on the silent command. All in the clearing readied their weapons, some taking to the trees to keep watch unseen.

"What is happening?" Astorion asked, squeezing the King's shoulder to draw his attention.

Thranduil's gaze had strayed back to the trees in search of an answer. "I know not," he murmured, sinking to one knee. He dug his fingers into the earth and closed his eyes in concentration. He could feel the pulse of life, the thrum of excitement...and a power unknown. It was closer now, much closer than the night before. Whatever it was, it was here. His eyes flew open. "It comes!"

Astorion's hand went to his sword. "What comes?"

Eluon drew his knives and took up a protective stance with his back to the King and the Steward. Two other guards with bows drawn stepped forward and took up positions opposite their captain, keeping the lords between them. Every guard in the clearing was on high alert.

Astorion knelt beside the King, ignoring his own pain and focusing entirely on Thranduil. He kept one hand on Thranduil's back as he watched his face intently. "Thranduil? What comes?"

The King glanced sharply at his Steward and Astorion's heart faltered. An unearthly green light had flashed across the normally pale blue irises of the King, gone as quickly as it had come, but there was no mistaking it.

 _Did he speak the truth, then, about what he saw in the mirror_?

The possibility sent a chill of fear up Astorion's spine. He pulled his hand away and rose to his feet, watching the kneeling King warily.

Thranduil's breath was shallow, shaky. His heart beat in time with the pulse of the forest. With the same abruptness that had silenced it, the Song began again, swelling with an exuberance so loud that Thranduil yanked his hands from the soil and covered his ears in an attempt to block it out. He gritted his teeth to stifle the cry in his throat and squeezed his eyes closed. Never in all his years had he felt the forest react in such a way. Never had the Song soared to such heights. Never had he felt such a surge of raw energy, of power unimaginable. It was frightening yet exhilarating. His heart and his mind were filled with the Song until there was no room for anything else. The power washing through the forest floor called to his very _fëa_. It called him South.

The trees rejoiced. The Elvenking collapsed.

o0o

 **TBC…..**

 **Thanks for reading - L.**


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